


jump or you're screwed

by orphan_account



Series: tomorrow they'll see what we are [7]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: (please let me know if i need to tag more), Character Death, Chronic Illness, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Muteness, Original Character(s), Others to be added - Freeform, Pre-Canon, The Refuge, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-17 02:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11842071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Race was in the Refuge? I didn't realize—""He don't talk about it much."In 1897, Racetrack Higgins was still finding his place among the Manhattan newsies and on the streets of the city. And unfortunately, trouble always seemed to find him, no matter how fast he ran.





	1. running away (again)

It wasn't supposed to be anything new.

Race just made a bad bet — he was _thirteen_ , he'd only been doing this a few years, it was to be expected — and the guys came looking for him to cough up money he didn't have yet ( _because he only makes damn pennies_ ) because they couldn't wait another week for him to earn enough, no matter what he told them. The other guys, they had his back on stuff like this, that's what his new family was there for ( _a damn sight better than his old one, screaming and yelling and shattering glass bottles_ ). He was so sure they'd be able to help him out, support him if he needed them ( _well, when he needed them_ ). And they did, rocks flying and voices raised, but—

"Racetrack, what in the fuck's wrong in your damn head?"

He flinched away from Jack's yell, stepping back a pace as the fifteen-year-old head of the Manhattan newsies loomed his considerable height advantage over Race with crossed arms. Trying not to let show how much Jack was scaring him, Race threw his arms out in an expansive gesture and hurled back a retort. "We's had stinkin' headlines for two _weeks_ , and I ain't had enough to pay up yet! Ain't my fault they couldn't damn wait!"

"Yeah, but sure's your damn fault you made those stupid bets again!" Specs put one hand on Jack's shoulder and tried to pull him back, but the shorter boy shrugged him off angrily and continued his tirade. "Every damn time, Racetrack! You makes these stupid bets, lose half of 'em, and then we's gotta pick up after your mess! Every! Time!" He rubbed one hand across the shiner starting to form over his right eye, glaring with his left. "Dammit, as if we ain't got _enough_ to deal with!"

That wasn't fair, and Jack knew it, so Race leaned back and gathered his wounded pride up in as much of a glare as he could muster. "Ya ain't even countin' the bets I _win!_ And it ain't like I'se the only one here makin' trouble! How many times is we needed to defend Romeo from folks, huh Jack? Or— or what about all them guys Snyder sends after _you_?"

Jack's face colored, and he leaned closer until they were nearly nose-to-nose, one hand raised angrily to gesture ( _or to wind back for a strike_ ). Race flinched violently, but Jack didn't seem to notice. "You try bein' stuck in the Refuge for a while, see how you likes it. Fightin' Snyder's thugs is the right damn thing to do, 'cause no kid deserves that shithole. But them damn brokers what keeps comin' after you? They's just here because _you'se_ an idiot who don't know when to keep his damn mouth shut!"

"Oh, what, and you ain't?" There was an unpleasant memory overlapping with Race's vision, and he scoffed ( _as though it would hide the trembling of his hands_ ). Crutchie, who had been fixing the cloth wrappings around the top of his crutch from where they'd gotten loosened whacking the shit out of one of Race's assailants, leaned forward to place one hand on Race's shoulder gently. His body was almost vibrating with nervous, defiant energy. "Yer a damn hypocrite, Jack Kelly. I thought you'se was supposed to be _better_ than them." His eyes were fixed on Jack's, but he couldn't stop them from flickering frantically to the raised hand and back.

It seemed like Jack noticed, because he glanced up at his own hand and paled rapidly, the angry flush seeping out of his face to be replaced with shock. He turned to Race, trying to lean back and lower his hand carefully, "Aw, shit, Race, I wasn't gonna— I wasn't _thinkin'—_ "

"You'se never thinkin', dammit!" Race's hands were shaking violently now, the spastic motions enough to make his entire torso tremble as he fought to keep his voice steady. "You'se just lettin' yourself blame whenever you likes, and not even thinkin' about what that blame's doing to the kids you'se throwin' it at! And you'se _the famous Jack Kelly_ , so it don't matter who you scare or hurt, do it? 'Cause you'se the best newsie in Manhattan, it don't matter how bad the headline as long as you'se sellin' enough, what do the _rest_ of us matter so long as _Jack Kelly_ gets by?"

"Race, that ain't—"

"Oh, _sure_ it ain't!" He'd been backing away, step by step, and Race felt the knob of the Lodging House door dig into his back and gripped it like a lifeline. "You just—" His voice cracked, fear and overlaid memories becoming too much to handle, and instead of finishing what was doubtlessly going to be just another badly-thought-out retort, he pushed the door open wide and ran out into the twilight streets of Manhattan. Someone behind him yelled, and he thought he heard footsteps running after him— and that really didn't help, did it? Revived echoes of his past followed whoever was pursuing him, and he pushed himself to run faster, faster than he had before, and maybe this time it would be fast enough to escape. ( _Back when he first moved into the Lodging House, he earned his street name for running faster than the racehorses in order to run away from home, and some of the newsies on the streets had seen him. The races and bets didn't come until later, until papes and bets were his only way of getting food to eat and a bed to sleep in and he was desperate_ ).

It felt like even once he outran the footsteps ( _as if anyone could have caught up with him_ ), there were always someone's eyes on him, watching. A mother closing her curtains as he ran past, delis closing their doors as he slowed to a brisk walk, other working kids on their ways home turning away and refusing to meet his eyes. What was it, why did they do that? What about him was so bad that the city's streets kept him under watch but didn't acknowledge his presence, so bad that he found himself hiding further and further in the abandoned alleys and unpaved paths ( _so bad that Jack went back on his word, he'd promised he would be better and he lied_ ).

The inside of Race's head felt like it was filled with fuzz and cotton wool. Humming and buzzing in his ears, just unpleasant enough to match the tacky taste of his own breath. When did he eat last? It couldn't have been today, so yesterday? He'd been saving up his pennies and nickels in order to pay off that damn bet ( _if they'd just given him more time—_ ), which had meant paying his rent and going hungry. It might have been a few days, but that wasn't too bad — Race had gone without before, when his old family sometimes forgot to feed him ( _even he can't really convince himself it was forgetfulness on their parts, but damn it, he'd like to believe_ ) or ran out of food and didn't bring him with them to go eat at delis. So he was a little tired, a little dizzy, but it wasn't anything he hadn't fought through before. A little rest, and he'd be just fine.

A little rest, but he wasn't going back to the Lodging House ( _Jack broke his promise_ ), and he didn't have another home to go back to anymore. Where would he go? He couldn't just sleep on the streets — that was like asking for a beating, or worse — but since he'd officially run away ( _since his papa had thrown one bottle too many, since his mama hadn't gotten back up, since he'd come home to blood and rope and silence_ ), the Lodging House had been the only place he had. Well— maybe not the only place. In the back of his head, a small voice whispered through the fuzz about Brooklyn, and Spot Conlon, and Race had only met the guy a few times but he knew that Spot was a good leader and a good kid, and would probably let him crash at their Lodging House for a few days until he could find a new haunt. Now he just had to get to Brooklyn—

But night had fallen, and Race was too tired to go that far. He was halfway across the borough from the bridge when his eyes started falling shut against his will, and a mixture of desperation and instinct found him a sheltered spot on a fire escape that looked relatively unused, two stories up above the alley he'd stumbled into. Someone had left an old burlap sack there, and it wasn't big enough for a blanket but he bunched it into a makeshift pillow and curled up as small as he could make himself. Since it was late August, nearing summer's end, at least the nights weren't too cold to survive outside— if it had been January, Race knew, he wouldn't have been able to even let himself sleep for fear of freezing to death. The sky was cloudy and seemed to tell of rain to come, so if he didn't find a proper place to hole up within a day or two he'd run the risk of catching cold and dying that way instead.

Right now, though, he was too weary to worry about that. He had a place to sleep tonight, a pillow for his head, and a plan for when he woke up. He'd get his papes in the morning and sell them at the races, just like usual, and then just— stay there, in Brooklyn. Yeah, that sounded like a good plan.

Race let his eyes fall close, and around him the world fell still.


	2. caught (with brittle edges)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get worse for Race. The other newsies are concerned but oblivious.

Of course, nothing could ever go _right_ for Race, _not a single goddamned thing._  

Wanted a normal family? _Bam_ , alcoholic dad destroyed everything while his son was off at work trying to make enough money for them to get by. Wanted to do better than scraping by on the streets? How about losing half the bets he made and getting brokers chasing him down with no sympathy for an orphan doing his best. Wanted friends, _brothers_ , folks who'd stick up for him when he desperately needed them? Yeah, that's gone too, now. Wanted to get a good night's sleep for once?

Woke up to the feeling of a policeman's cudgel slamming into the side of his ribcage, and a voice overhead growling something about ' _loitering_ ' and ' _street rat_ ' and ' _the Refuge_ '. Now, Race had never been particularly known for his brains or his intuition ( _in fact, there were a good number of times when his intuition was almost breathtakingly wrong, as anyone he placed his bets with could attest_ ), but nearly two years of knowing Jack Kelly had taught him how to know exactly what that combination of words would entail. And _that_ knowledge sent a thrum of terror through his body, jolting his muscles into motion before he could put his thoughts together enough to realize what a _bad idea_ this reaction was. By the time he did, he'd already jerked backwards and lashed out with a foot, striking towards the policeman's shin even though his thoughts finally caught up and screamed at him that this was exactly the sort of stupid, reckless reaction that kept getting other boys bagged.

" _Gerroff—_ " His first strike connected, probably due to the element of surprise — maybe the guy hadn't thought he was totally awake yet — but his second attempt failed miserably as the policeman caught his ankle in one hand and used it as leverage to drag Race across the grating of the fire escape and into a waiting fist. The blow connected against his cheekbone and the side of his nose, and he could almost swear he heard blood vessels breaking — at least, he sure hoped it was blood vessels, instead of his nose itself. A broken nose would be a much bigger pain to heal from than a nosebleed. "—Oh, _fuck you—_ "

A second blow clocked him in the ear, and for what can't have been more than a few seconds but felt like minutes, his head was ringing so loudly he could barely hear what the policeman was yelling at him ( _though he could more than feel when the bastard's cudgel slammed into his stomach, and then again into his arm when he lifted it to shield his head_ ). By the time his hearing cleared, a second pair of hands — another cop, or maybe just a lackey like those Delancey guys — had dragged him to his feet and were pulling him down the stairs. He couldn't let them take him, _couldn't go there—_

His ( _pitiful_ ) attempt to dislodge himself from the hands on his arms earned Race another blow to the head, and a mean laugh as he was released to fall down the rest of the fire escape stairs. In the brief reprieve before the cops — they were both cops, after all, he caught a glimpse of them as he tumbled head over heels to the ground — got to him, he looked up at the sky and tried to force himself to move in spite of the pain shuddering through his bones. It wasn't even quite daybreak yet, the morning bell hadn't rung— all the other newsies would be sleeping quietly right now. There wasn't anyone around to help him ( _well, did he deserve anything else, after yelling at Jack and running away again again a g a i n_ ). Nobody would come looking, they thought he had just left— they'd probably just think he was in Brooklyn. He was always in Brooklyn, wasn't he?

Damn, why hadn't he just continued on to Brooklyn last night? Screw sleep, screw whatever his eyes were doing — he was a _newsie_ , he should know these streets back and forth with his eyes closed, he should have gotten there to— to what? To Spot? How did he even know that would have _worked?_ Sure, Race was on _speaking_ terms with the Brooklyn newsies, but he'd only spoken to their leader once or twice, he wasn't even sure Spot remembered who he _was_ until he said hello. Why had he even _thought_ they would take him in, give him somewhere to sleep, _something—_

Why had he gone and run away?

There were footsteps on the stairs, and Race gave up on making his bruised body work for him. Instead, he tried to breathe evenly and not panic. Jack would, the boys would, _someone_ would notice he was gone _eventually—_ _damn it, why did he run like that?_ He knew Jack had issues, knew he'd been dealt a harsh blow but had given back just as bad as he got, and going to the Refuge— no way in _hell_ would Jack help him out _there_. Not after what he'd been through — Race _knew_ it, had seen Jack when he came back the last time it happened, he _knew_ how bad the place was for him— no way Jack would go near it, not for _Race_. Maybe for one of the other boys, Crutchie or Specs or little Elmer, maybe he'd brave the Refuge for one of the boys who _deserved_ it. Not for Race.

Jack wouldn't do it for a worthless troublemaker like Race.

No-one would.

( _No-one ever had._ )

A boot caught him hard in the stomach and he instinctively rolled over onto his other side, gagging and dry-heaving in the scant seconds before a large hand dragged him up by the collar of his shirt. "Not so much to say _now_ , huh, boy? Come on, fellas, let's get this little rat off the streets before the hoards arrive." 

Race struggled, trying to pull away from the hand holding him, but his knee decided it would be a great time to give in and he stumbled, held up only by the officer's too-tight grip. Dimly, he knew he was speaking — shouting — cursing and pleading in the same breath for them to let him go, _please, let him go dammit, get your fucking hands off of him just stop touching him just please let him go_. Of course, he wasn't so lucky that anyone would actually listen, and whatever he was saying ( _at this point, Race wasn't sure he was even in control of what was coming out of his mouth_ ) seemed to only make things worse— the bigger cop bodily picked him up and _threw_ him into the back of the wagon, instead of just hauling him inside. He felt his head and shoulder slam against the wagon wall, heard an odd _pop-crack_ sort of sound that accompanied an odd sort of numb tingle in his arm, and watched the dim light inside the wagon blink and fuzz into darkness.

He slept.

 

* * *

 

"Hey, Jack, where's Race at? I ain't seen him since—"

Jack pursed his lips in frustration, pacing back and forth in front of the yet-unopened circulation desk with white-knuckled hands shoved into his pockets and not meeting Crutchie's concerned eyes. "Since last night, yeah, I knows. I ain't seen him either. Damn kid probably ran off to _Brooklyn_ , like they'se so much better'n us. Bet that smug bastard Conlon's just _laughin' it up_ across the river." He exhaled a little too forcefully for it to be unintentional, jaw set with a sort of tenseness that spoke of a concern not present in his words.

Listening to the calls of birds waking up with the rest of the city and leaning a little more heavily on his crutch than usual, Crutchie sighed. None of them were proud of what had happened with Race last night, and he knew Jack was far more worried than he would let himself show about the younger boy — Race had come to them from a home almost worse than Jack's had been ( _from what he'd told Crutchie of it, at least_ ), and they both knew well how damaging that sort of living environment could have been. Jack did his best, Crutchie knew that, but a lifetime of escaping and defending oneself from the world at large tended to leave cracks and scars, and sometimes the stuff that seeped out from those weak points was dark and nasty and _hurtful._  

He'd borne the brunt of it, sometimes, because Crutchie wasn't afraid of Jack and he wasn't bearing the burden of trauma that many of the other boys were ( _he didn't instinctively flinch away from sudden movements or raised voices, he wasn't afraid of touch or anger, those things didn't hurt him any more than they might hurt a more privileged fella, and he could stand up for himself when things crossed the line_ ), and because they were close like that. He could calm Jack down, and Jack knew how to calm himself down with Crutchie. 

But Race? The kid was Crutchie's age, but he'd only been living at the Lodging House for— well, not quite a year yet— and had only been a newsie for maybe a year and a half before, if that long. He still jumped at loud noises and fidgeted with scraps and coins like he needed something to distract him from his surroundings, and when he got in fights Crutchie could see the same sort of brittleness to him that Jack had. Race, like Jack, was one of those kids who would fight until they shatter to pieces, instead of bending and giving and shifting around challenges while staying whole.

Jack knew it too, and Crutchie thought that might be part of why he was so hard on Race for the boy's gambling. At the end of the day, Jack was their leader for a reason, even though he wasn't the oldest newsie in the city or even in Manhattan — he cared about each and every newsboy, and cared so deeply that sometimes he started to crack from the inside with all of the care he was holding in him. He knew his flaws and failings, and he could see the beginnings of them in Race, and Jack didn't know how to help him fix them but he tried— he _was_ trying— as best he knew to stop Race from making the same bad choices and mistakes Jack had. Crutchie could see that much. 

The problem was that two damaged people could either fit their broken pieces together and grow stronger for it, or let their edges crash and shatter against each other and just cause more hurt. And right now, it seemed as though Jack and Race were doing the latter even though they were trying very hard for the former. Jack's edges were too sharp, and Race's too brittle, and the only thing that happened when they tried to find common ground was Jack becoming sharper and Race cracking a little further. If they continued that way, without finding a way to put themselves together without hurting— well, perhaps it would be better for them to be apart.

So he sighed, and limped his way over to Jack's side as the other boys began arriving. "I'm sure he's safe, Jack. Probably just needs some cool-down time, y'know? I'se _bettin'_ ya he's just gonna stay there in Brooklyn with Spot Conlon for a few days, an' then he'll come back soon." 

Back _home_ , he didn't say, but they both knew it. Jack sighed, and some of the tension in his jaw and shoulders eased with the breath as he leaned down to rest his forehead on Crutchie's shoulder. There was nothing much else to say— this wasn't something that could be fixed with empty words— so Crutchie just patted his friend's shoulder and hoped in the quiet of his mind that Race really _was_ safe in Brooklyn with Spot and the Brooklyn boys. Hoped that soon, he would come home.

If that wasn't the case, he wasn't sure what they were going to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2! Sorry for the introspective stuff in Crutchie's part. I'm not good at filling writing with descriptive stuff, so I tend to go for inner dialogue and thoughts instead. It's a trait that needs some work.
> 
> Enjoy!


	3. welcome to the refuge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race wakes up, and someone else notices he's missing.

_Let it not be said that Spot Conlon did a double-take when he failed to cross paths with a light-haired, foul-mouthed gambler on his way to the races._  

 

* * *

 

"Hey— hey, kid, you'se gotta wake up." 

Race came to slowly, vision blurring in front of him as he tried to force his eyes open and focus on the fuzzy face hovering a little too close to his own. Everything seemed to be tinted grey-and-brown, and he couldn't see any of the usual blue— where was his blue? There wasn't any blue sky, dark with night or bright under the sun, he couldn't see the blue of Jack's shirt or the faded green cloth that Crutchie had retrieved to methodically rip into padding for the handle of his crutch, and there was no sign of the dirt-stained blue-and-white-and-purple blanket he'd retrieved from his home and brought to the Lodging House after everything. Where was that blanket? Where was he? 

The fuzzy face moved, and Race tried to focus on it as an odd dark spot that must have been its mouth moved, words entering his ears with a slight delay. "Look, you can't keep sleeping, those cops busted your head real good. You'se gotta— man, I don't know, just— there, yeah, keep your eyes open like that. C'mon, can you stand?" 

The barely-restrained fear in the voice stirred Race to move, slowly pushing himself into a sitting position braced on his arms— nope, nope, braced on one arm. The other refused to bear his weight, and felt oddly numb while sending a jolt of pain up his shoulder as he tried to move it. He cradled it against his aching chest and didn't try to move it again. 

* * *

_He didn't retrace his steps, or take a long route that happened to bring him past Sheepshead, or slow down to scan every visible inch of the area for a familiar face that was curiously missing. No, he definitely didn't walk a full lap around the races, stopping only here and there to sell a pape when passerby expressed interest without him hawking it, wasting his valuable time to try and find a sign of his— not friend, definitely not brother, acquaintance?_

* * *

 

Once he was somewhat upright, Race's vision finally cleared enough for him to take in the face of the boy who had been looking down at him, and was now sitting beside him quietly. The kid looked like he was a year or so younger than Race, with dark hair and eyes and a round face made hollow by hunger. He was holding a brownish-red bandana, and as Race blinked a few times to clear his vision the boy leaned forward again to dab the cloth — slightly damp to the touch — across his chin.  

"Careful — it's stopped now, but your nose was bleedin' when they brought you in. Try'n breathe with your mouth if you can." As Race tried doing just that, the boy pulled himself upright with the help of a broken broom-handle and a nearby bedpost. The room they were in was small, with two bunkbeds and not quite enough floor-space for a third in between. There was a single, square window set in the stone wall, large enough for a skinny boy to crawl through if it weren't for the metal bars set into it. Each bed-bunk appeared occupied by multiple small, sleeping ( _or hiding_ ) shapes. "C'mere, you'se can share my bunk. I'se had my own, on account of my coughin', but all the others in this room are full up."

His leg almost gave out under him as he forced himself to his feet, but Race managed to pull himself upright long enough to stagger over to the indicated ( _thankfully lower_ ) bunk and fall onto it, pressing his working arm against the spot where his ribs were loudly protesting the movement. "Thanks, uh—"

The mattress ( _barely thick enough to be called as such, really, and overwhelmingly pathetic_ ) sank in a bit as the other boy took a seat at his side. A beetle scuttled across the floor, pursued by a relatively small rat — Race lifted his feet up onto the bed, but his companion didn't seem to mind. "Most folks call me Red, 'ere, on account of I'se always coughin it up. Bad lungs, been so since I was little," He added by way of explanation, waving his brownish-red handkerchief casually ( _the color of dried blood, Race realized_ ) and grinning. "Or you'se can call me Mei, though I ain't heard it much in a while so's I can't be sure to respond." Race nodded slowly, and the boy — Red — grinned. "D'you remember your name, kid?"

"My— uh, Race. Racetrack Higgins," His companion looked intrigued, and Race found himself explaining further, telling more than he usually would have ( _perhaps it was the head injury scrambling his thoughts, or simply having someone to talk to again_ ), "since I'se always selling by Sheepshead. The races, see? Used to be— used to be Antonio, but it's a shitty name for a shitty place, so I'se not using it no more."

Red grinned sympathetically. "Nice ta meetcha, Racetrack. Bummer ya got stuck here—"

"Here?"

Race knew the answer, the memories of the morning and night before slowly trickling back into his aching head, but it still rung with a hollow finality when Red's smile turned bitter and he gestured to the room with one skinny arm mottled by bruises and dirt. "Welcome to the Refuge, kid."

* * *

_Well, no, he didn't do that the first time he didn't see Race on his way to selling._

* * *

 

The first day was almost quiet— Race wasn't sure what he'd expected of the Refuge ( _Jack's worst nightmare_ ), but perhaps he was lucky enough to have come in on an off day, of sort ( _wouldn't that be a laugh_ ). He'd missed the morning meal — according to Red, there was only one meal, and it was at the crack of dawn so if anyone wasn't awake early enough they'd just have to go hungry — so his energy wavered back and forth from the edge of consciousness, but he and Red made use of the quiet talking. Sharing their respective stories, as it were— well, it kept Race awake, which was the most important part.

With patient prompting, he told Red how he was a newsie, and what it was like selling papes for a living, and living at the Lodging House. Red, in turn, disclosed that he'd been working at a textile factory until rising anti-Chinese sentiments had led to him being laid off— he'd gone truant willingly, as he told it, to avoid worse alternatives that would have otherwise awaited him ( _worse alternatives that would've stolen the cloth wrapped around his chest, and his new name, and everything that made him who he was, and Race understood_ ). Race talked about his fellow newsies ( _Jack's leadership and Crutchie's brilliant smile, Spec's quiet protection and Albert's crooked humor_ ), and received stories of two little sisters always underfoot and searching for fireflies despite their parents' exasperation in return. When the conversation turned to ages, he divulged his readily enough, and then nearly choked when Red revealed with a laugh that he was sixteen— even older than Jack.

No wonder he'd been calling Race ' _kid_ '!

Throughout it all, Red never seemed particularly concerned about being interrupted by guards or any of the other nasty things Race had heard about from Jack ( _he should've listened to Jack more, he would have known better what to expect_ ). When asked, he smiled that bitter smile again and laughed quietly to himself.

"Kid, this is the end-of-the-line. Us folks in this room, we's too busted up to cause trouble. Kid's like me who're sick or crippled, guys what are dying or not wakin' up. When folks get real messed up on the way in, they'se tossed in here until they start kickin' again, so long as there's room."

Race didn't need to look at Red's eyes to hear the hollow depth in his voice, a whisper of how many times the older boy must have seen other prisoners — because that's what they were, in here — die in front of him ( _Jack never talked about kids dying in the Refuge, but maybe he just didn't want to think about it_ ). He didn't ask any further, just searched through his pockets until he found a deck of cards he'd forgotten to put away at the Lodging House, and started shuffling them between his fingers to keep himself awake. He was not going to be another dead kid in this room.

* * *

_The double-take, yes, but he didn't take a long route past Sheepshead until the second day, nor did he slow down to scan the races for the Manhattan newsie until the third day of his absence._

* * *

 

Red didn't let him sleep, the first night he was there, so Race barely managed to stumble alongside the older boy when guards all but shoved them into the hall with a pointed warning that if they went anywhere but the loo and the kitchen, they'd be 'boxed away' for days. Breakfast was barely food, a sort of slop that vaguely resembled oatmeal and a single glass of water, but Race hadn't eaten in days and gulped it down like it was wine and his mother's favorite homemade pasta. He knew better than to ask for more— even at the house he was born in, that had been far from okay, and the Lodging House simply never had enough for it ( _when they had food at all_ ). 

It was also his first sight of the other boys, the ones outside of the end-of-the-line room. Some of them tried to fight the guards, and at least one was dragged away down the hall screaming. The screams stopped soon. The other boys spoke to each other in hushed voice, hunched backs and shoulders shoved together like they could create a barrier between their words and the world outside. Every so often, a guard would lean over to listen in. If he didn't like what he heard, the offending speaker would be hit with a hand or a cudgel. Some boys stopped talking after that. Some squared their shoulders and spoke louder, defiant.

Red didn't talk, and whenever Race looked over at him, his expression was tense. When they returned to the end-of-the-line, the older boy immediately collapsed onto their shared mattress, coughing violently into his already-stained handkerchief. Race decided that he hated the sound, wet and spluttering and rasping all in one, and offered one of his makeshift bandages to Red to wipe away the blood staining his lips. They passed the second day in silence. 

That night, he was finally allowed to sleep, as Red seemed to have decided that his head wound was mild enough that he'd be guaranteed to wake up afterwards. The lack of regular food and rest caught up to him, though, and he completely slept through the next breakfast. He woke up after Red was already gone, and practiced throwing dirt at the rodents and pests skittering around the room. One of the other boys wasn't breathing, and when Red came back ( _a fresh bruise on his cheek_ ), a guard came too and hauled the dead boy away down the hall ( _Race watched with morbid fascination, because the dead boy's body reminded him of his mother crumpled on the floor and his father hanging from the fan and— and he needed to think of something else quick_ ). The boy's bunkmate ( _he'd had two, but one only woke up for breakfasts and spent the rest of his days in a feverish slumber_ ) cried and cried, unable to articulate his sorrow in anything but gasps and sobs ( _Race caught a glimpse of his mouth and quickly turned away, because the boy's tongue had been cut out and all that was left was a mangled stub_ ), and Red let him crawl onto the mattress between he and Race for the day.

Once the grieving boy had fallen into a fitful, tear-stained sleep, Race wordlessly offered Red his deck of cards. He didn't ask where the bruise came from, or what to do now— even if there was something he could do, normally, right now he could barely walk or breathe normally, and the shoulder one of the other boys had ( _kindly, even if it had hurt like hell_ ) popped back into its socket yesterday still ached and trembled with any bit of use. Instead, they just played cards quietly until the light died and a guard rapped on the door to tell them to sleep.

Tomorrow, he was sure, tomorrow he'd do something ( _Jack would have done something yesterday, but he wasn't Jack and tomorrow was the best a useless little scrap like him could do_ ). He was not going to be another dead kid in this room.

* * *

_It wasn't until the fifth day of a significant absence of Racetrack Higgins that Spot found himself circling twice around the races, asking the regulars if they'd seen a kid, cheeky face and light hair, swears in Italian and sometimes murmurs to himself in Gaelic. They just shook their heads and said they hadn't seen him since he got in a brawl with some brokers the last day he'd been there, asked Spot to let them know if there was any news. Race was a popular kid, knew his selling turf and his customers well, knew how to make them laugh and splutter like old friends._

* * *

 

On the fifth day, the guards apparently decided he was well enough that he didn't need the luxury of the end-of-the-line any longer. He tried to follow Red back from breakfast, just like he had done before, and immediately two sets of heavy hands grabbed him and dragged him down a different hall. His ribs ached, his arm screamed a silent protest as he swung a fist at one of the two guards holding him, and he let a stream of angry Italian flow from his raw throat as he fought against the movement. He was not going to be another dead kid in this place, he was not going to— _he was not—_

Apparently, his rebellion earned him a special treatment, because after a solid blow to the head ( _what was it with these guys and heads? Did they want every boy in this damn place to be so loopy they couldn't think straight, let alone resist? It was a reasonable possibility_ ), he was dragged down a different hall and a flight of cold, stone stairs to what he could only assume was the basement. The basement, Red had explained, was where the bad kids went — where they were boxed. 

This, Race learned, meant they were shoved into a metal crate barely large enough to curl up in, with a door that locked from the outside and no light. Air holes perforated the top to ensure they could breathe, but the edges were sharp and would cut you if you brushed too close. Food was even worse than the regular breakfast— water in a dog bowl and a hunk of stale, sometimes moldy bread— and seemed to be served less often than the regular breakfast was. Race was sure there was more than just his box in the basement — he could hear the others around him. One boy pounded on the walls of his, one boy yelled profanities at the guards every time they heard footsteps on the stairs.

One boy cried, sobbing in broken Spanish for his mother.

Race tried to stay quiet, but his nature got the best of him ( _Jack wouldn't have stayed silent, he would've fought_ ). He joined the boy yelling profanities at the guards, adding his own taunts and cutting words to the mix, tossing Italian and occasionally Gaelic in with the English and the other boy's Chinese. Sometimes, the words earned him no bread for the day ( _days? It was hard to tell how time passed_ ), or another day in the box, or a blow against the metal that made him jump and stab himself on the sharp edges of the air holes. It took all he had to stay awake, to stay conscious, to not give in. He was not going to be another dead kid in this place.

* * *

_Days six, seven, eight-nine-ten-eleven-twelve — Spot takes the long route, walks laps around the Sheepshead races, sells papes to Race's regulars and feels a weird part of his stomach sink a little further every time he has to shake his head in answer to their increasingly concerned questions._

* * *

 

He didn't remember falling asleep, but Race eventually woke up to light — the first light he'd seen in days, and he turned his face towards it like the flowers in his mother's pitiful window-box used to on sunny days. There still wasn't any blue, so he wasn't back at the Lodging House, but there was light and there hadn't been any of that in the Box. The air smelled fresher, too, and he breathed as deeply as he could to fill his aching lungs with something that wasn't heavy with moisture and rot. A hand on his shoulder was shaking him gently, more gently than anything he could remember from the Box, and he swallowed the instinct to flinch and swear and instead sat up and turned to face—

"Welcome back, kid."

Race let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, only barely stopping himself from falling forward onto Red's shoulder in relief. "You'se— how come I'se back here, huh? I thought they was movin' me out, before I gots myself Boxed." Someone was wrapping cloth — a torn sheet or shirt, perhaps — around his chest and over the cuts and puncture wounds on his back and shoulders from the Box's air holes, and when he turned to look he saw the mute kid whose bunkmate died on Race's third day in the Refuge. He was taller than Race, with skin a shade or two lighter than Red's and a— well, for lack of better words, a kind-looking face. 

A shrug was his first response. "I thought they was too, kid. Guess the Box wasn't kind to ya, so they decided ya'd be outta commission for a bit. Tossed back in here with the rest of us broke fellas." Red's face looked paler than it had been when Race last saw him, and he broke off halfway through speaking to cough wetly into his stained handkerchief. Despite that, he seemed to make an effort to smile when they met eyes. "Good to have you back, Race. We's missed ya."

"How—" Race broke off into a fit of coughing himself, lungs still unused to the fresher air, and received a sympathetic pat on the back from the mute boy. "—How long was I in there?"

The mattress underneath them creaked as Red shifted, adjusting his crooked leg to a more comfortable position. "I'se been out myself, a few days, so I don't know. Mush, you got any idea?" Behind him, the mute kid seemed to make some sort of gesture, because Red nodded in understanding and returned his gaze to Race. "Mush says it's been a week. Oh, uh— Race, this 'ere is Mush. Mush, Racetrack." And, in true older-brother fashion, he added, "Play nice, you two."

"Mush?" The boy grinned brightly when Race turned to look at him, waving cheerfully. He seemed a far cry from the desolate boy who'd shared the bunk with Race and Red for a night while his old one was beaten against the wall to rid it off the scent of death. "Mind, uh— where'd that name come from?"

The boy's fingers flicked back and forth a few times, and Red translated what must be sign language, though Race couldn't make heads or tails of it. "His tongue, 'pparently. And— sorry, again?" Mush patiently repeated the series of signs he'd made, and that seemed to do the trick. "And before that, he had a rep for bein' 'mushy', in th' sentimental sense."

"Right. Gotcha. I'se, uh— I sell papes by the races. Bet on 'em, too."

Mush's eyes widened, and he signed rapidly at Red while gesturing across the room to his old bunk. The older boy sighed, coughing once more into his kerchief before nodding and glancing at Race. "Thanks for remindin' me, kid. Race, we's got a new guy in here too— looks like he's a newsboy like you, busted his face up real good on the way in. He ain't woken up yet. You wanna—"

Before the phrase could be finished, Race was up and stumbling across the room to the opposite bunk, legs still weak and ready to give out under him from a week of stillness. Another newsie, stuck in here? Was it one of the Manhattan boys? One of Spot's? Had someone noticed him missing, did they— did someone— He staggered and fell to his knees once he reached the bunk, leaning over the unconscious ( _sleeping, hopefully just sleeping_ ) boy furthest from the wall to push the newsboy cap off of his face. The moment he did, one eye flew open and a hand shot out to grab him by the shirt-collar. Race flinched, startled, and for a tense few seconds he and the other boy simply stared at one another.

Then he began to laugh, breath rasping in his throat and bordering hysteria, and the other boy released him to sit upright and chuckle bitterly to himself. One bright eye locked onto his, the other hidden under a dirty black patch and a shock of hair, and dry lips split into a wide grin.

"So this is where you've been, Racetrack."

"Good to see ya too, asshole."

 

* * *

 

_On the thirteenth day since Race's disappearance, Spot Conlon flings open the door to Jacobi's diner and marches across the room to where Jack and Crutchie are talking quietly over a glass of water. The rest of the room is immediately on edge, because Manhattan and Brooklyn don't get along, not without everyone's favorite gambler to act as a bridge between them. The self-declared King of Brooklyn plants his feet and crosses his arms, staring down the leader of the Manhattan newsies for a tense minute._

_"Kelly, we's got a problem."_

_Jack sighs. "What did Race do now?"_

_A second of stillness, then another, and Spot replies slowly. "Race ain't been around in nearly two weeks, Kelly. The folks at Sheepshead've been askin' for him, and I ain't got answers." It's an unstated question, and Jack seems to freeze in place so Crutchie answers in his stead._

_"Spot, we ain't seen Race in that time neither. We's was thinkin' he was with you."_

_"Well, he ain't, and that ain't what I'se here to talk about." The smaller boy drags a chair out from a nearby table to sit heavily in it, arms resting on the backrest and eyes hard. "Kelly, you knows how to get outta the Refuge, right? Cool it," He adds when the rest of the newsies shift defensively, locked onto the tightness of Jack's expression, "I ain't tryin'a land you in it. But they got Blink yesterday, and I needs to bust him out."_

_Specs crosses the room to stand at Jack's shoulder, and they confer briefly. Crutchie, meanwhile, leans closer to Spot and lowers his voice. "Spot, if Race ain't been with you, and he ain't been with us, where's he gone?"_

_"Back home?"_

_Crutchie stares at him, unblinking. "Spot, Race ain't had a home for months. He's been at the Lodging House with the rest of us. So if he ain't here, and he ain't there—"_

_"He's either dead, or in another borough, or—"_

_They meet eyes at the same time, and the younger boy slowly finishes Spot's sentence for him, a sort of heavy shock to his words that they both feel, because how could neither of them — none of them, not a single one — remembered? Why couldn't they have thought, looked, just a little sooner—_

_"—or the Refuge."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooooah, this chapter exploded on me! Somehow, this is twice as long as the last one, haha. Once I figured out how to write it, it just kinda— clicked, y'know?
> 
> So far, Race is managing to survive, but things are only going to get worse (before they can get better).


	4. making plans (on both sides)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the same time, in two different places, newsies begin to make plans.

"So how'd you get bagged, Blink? Thought you was a master cop-dodger."

The one-eyed newsie shrugged, picking at the undersides of his nails idly with a file he must have smuggled in somehow, stashed in his drawers or his boots. He seemed superbly unruffled for someone who'd been not only dragged into the Refuge, but done so violently enough that he was stuck in the end-of-the-line with Red and Mush and Race. To Race's eyes, the other boy didn't actually look all that badly hurt — he'd gotten a head wound, but it had mostly stopped bleeding as far as was visible, and any other injuries clearly weren't bothering him enough to warrant clear discomfort. Then again, Blink was one of the most unruffled guys Race had ever met — he'd seen the Brooklyn newsie walk into swarms of cockroaches without a reaction, and once responded to being smacked in the face with a flying fish by calmly grabbing the fish, wrapping it in an unsold pape, and continuing his way home to make one of the other boys cook it for dinner. 

Race glanced across the small gap to Red and Mush, who were both watching curiously from the other bunk, and sighed. "If you'se worried about it soundin' stupid, don't be— they got me sleepin' on a fire escape, like a damn fool."

"The fuck was you doin' on a fire escape? Ain't you got a proper house?"

He snorted. "Not for months, I ain't. I been livin' at the Lodging House, but— uh, Jack an' I got in a fight, and I—" Race paused, wincing at the memory as much as the aches and pains still shuddering through his body. "—I, uh, ran away. Was gonna go join you'se all in Brooklyn, but I'd been skimpin' on food to try'n save up for that bad bet— to pay it off— so I just didn't have the energy to get across the river. I would'a come an' found you in the morning, but—"

"But they bagged ya." Blink laughed bitterly and crossed his arms. "Well, you're not wrong, Racetrack— that's definitely more pathetic than mine. I got nabbed stealin' a switchblade from a cop— they got it back, an' decided to show me what a lousy idea that was by example." When Race grimaced in sympathy, he waved one hand. "Damn thing was dull as shit— barely did any damage. A bit of acting, playin' up the wounds— kept me outta the bad rooms, gives me time to figure out howta bust the two of us outta here."

A quiet chuckle drew their attention across the room to Red, who was leaning heavily on his broken broom-handle but grinning. "You'se gonna bust outta here, huh? You'se tryin'a be the next Jack Kelly, fella-I-ain't-met-yet?"

"Oh, uh— Red, this's Blink. He's one of my buddies from Brooklyn. Blink, these here sad bastards are Red and Mush, our friendliest roommates in this shithole." Race gestured to each boy in turn, receiving a nod from Red and a cheerful wave from Mush, before fixing his gaze on the former. "And— Red, you do realize that's my pal Jack you'se talkin' about, yeah? I know he's been in and outta here a few times, but I ain't realized you knew each other."

For a few moments, Red seemed shocked into silence, but once they'd passed he chuckled a little sadly and shrugged, coughing into his kerchief before speaking. "Anyone what who's been here longer'n a few weeks knows Jack Kelly. He was here when I was brought in— got me a bottom bunk on account of my leg, stole me this here kerchief for the coughin'. Guy's practically a saint to most of the boys in here, 'specially those of us who ain't got a way out." His grin stretched a little wider, and almost seemed to meet his eyes. "Came by once or twice with blankets an' such. He don't come to this room much, though— don't think he knows about it. They only moved me here once they figured out the cough weren't going away, and Jack was long gone by then."

"Well, we ain't got no Jack Kelly to help us now." Blink narrowed his visible eye at Race, who felt a shudder of cold certainty flood his veins in time with his companion's words. "Racetrack, ain't nobody knows you'se here. Spot thought you was just sellin' elsewhere, or sick. And them Manhattan boys—" 

"—think I'se in Brooklyn with you all, yeah. I knows, Blink." Race sighed ( _it would've been nice to think someone was looking for him, but he knew better than to expect that_ ) and rested his head in his hands, the ache from the still-healing wound near the base of his skull sending a sort of muted pulse of pain through his head and behind his eyes. "So we's on our own."

Blink shook his head, flipping the file in his hand to gesture with it like a knife. "Not quite, Racer-boy. You Manhattan boys might be oblivious, but I'se from Brooklyn, and we takes care of our own. Spot'll know I'm gone by now— they nabbed me yesterday. And he ain't gonna leave one of us to rot in this stink-hole. Neither of us— you'se as good as one of us, Race."

An odd sort of heat began to gather behind Race's eyes, and it wasn't until his breath caught in his throat and his vision started to blur that he realized what it was— tears. ' _You'se as good as one of us_ ', Blink had said, and somehow— somehow, hearing that, Race felt like he had something almost like hope for the first time since arriving in the Refuge. He wasn't alone ( _he had Red, and Mush, and now Blink_ ), and someone was coming ( _Spot was coming, Brooklyn would be coming for them_ ), and he wasn't going to be another dead kid in this room ( _none of them— they were gonna get out together_ ). A sob broke through the odd barrier in his throat, and he buried his face in his hands to hide the tears that were already rebelliously running down his cheeks.

A pair of warm arms ( _too long to be Blink, too strong to be Red, so it had to be Mush_ ) wrapped around his shoulders, and a thin-fingered hand ( _that was Red, for sure_ ) gently combed through his hair. Above his shoulder, he heard Red speak with more determination than he'd heard from anyone in this ( _damned_ ) place, and could almost picture Blink's responding grin — bright and dangerous.

"So, what's our plan?"

 

* * *

_"So, you'se got a plan, Kelly?"_

_Jack lifts his head briefly from where it's been resting in his hands to glare at Spot with hollow eyes. "The hell makes you think I got a plan? I ain't busted nobody out before, Conlon. I'se always gotta escape a different way, too, so it ain't like there's some miracle fuckin' spot for us to exploit."_

_Seated on the table behind him, Specs hums thoughtfully. "We's visited bunches, though, so we can at least get folks up to the building. We's gonna need to figure out where Blink— and Race, if he's there— is bein' kept, ain't we? So we can go scout it out to start with, for sure."_

_"Sounds solid. How's we doin' that?"_

_Specs and Jack trade glances, and for the first time in a week the latter grins. "Alright, listen up—"_

* * *

 

"Spot ain't gonna be able to find us in this here room, so our first goal's gotta be gettin' at least one of us out." Blink spoke with a calm voice, sounding almost at ease with the situation— and for all Race knew, he probably was. Blink was probably one of the most capable newsies he knew ( _way moreso than a burden like Race, that was for sure_ ). "Not outta this shithole, yet, but outta this room. We's gotta know the layout of this place, so's we can make sure the guys on the outside know where we is. Red, sounds like you'se been here longest, got any words of wisdom to share?"

Red pursed his lips thoughtfully, face still pale and now drawn in concentration. "I think I can give folks directions to this room from the one Jack an' I was in when I first arrived. If one of your boys can get a message to him, he oughta be able to help find us." He glanced around the group. "If one of you'se can sneak over at night, we's might be able to set up a line of contact from there. I knows the guard rounds, I can spot you along the way."

Wiping away his tears, Race leaned back against Mush's shoulder and exhaled slowly. "Alright, so step one is gettin' to one of the main rooms an' making contact with whoever Spot sends in. We oughta do that every night until someone shows up, yeah? Maybe we's can take turns."

"Sounds square. Red, you teach me them guard rounds so's I can spot 'em for Race an' Mush, that way we's able to switch off each night."

In front of Race, Mush's hands flickered through signs before settling on a double thumbs-up, and Red chuckled. "Deal. How's about once we make contact, what then?"

 

* * *

_"—There's a wall up 'round the Refuge, right?" Jack gestures broadly, indicating a large squarish structure. "Most of it's got that damn guard wire on top, cuts a fella up real good if he tries to touch it, but—" He leans forward conspiratorially, expression more animated than it has been recently (even in this conversation). "—but there's a place I knows where you'se can get over it if you're nimble an' quick. If we's gonna send folks in, Specs or I can lead 'em in."_

_Spot blinks a few times, then narrows his eyes. "Why can't ya just tell me 'bout it, and let my boys handle this?"_

_"What, with Race possibly in the Refuge too? Spot, ya know we can't leave that well alone." Crutchie's voice is gentle but firm, and he taps his crutch against the ground a little too intentionally to be entirely benign. "And 'sides, it's a right tricky way in. See, you'se gotta climb a tree, and then make like a squirrel across two more— the last one'll letcha down on the other side of the wall, but you'se gotta know where to land so's to avoid the loud bushes and the gravel, and then you gotta be able to know where them guards is gonna be, so's to dodge them on your way up. And then you'se gotta climb up to the windows, which means findin' the right route and handholds." He shrugs casually. "Face it, you ain't gonna get in there without us."_

_The King of Brooklyn bites his lip and grimaces, spitting out a "Fine!" as though it burns him. "Fine, Kelly, we does it your way. So once you'se got us in and we's found them, what next?"_

_This time, Jack doesn't hesitate before speaking up. "Next—"_

* * *

 

This one, Race knew the answer to. "Once we makes contact, we's gotta make plans. Gotta figure out how we's gonna get outta the building to start with. That part's gonna be on us, 'cause they sure ain't gonna risk nothing by comin' in here— you Brooklyn boys may be loyal, but most of you ain't stupid."

"True."

Beside Race, Mush turned a bit to sign quickly at Red, who narrowed his eyes thoughtfully before translating. "Mush here's wonderin' if either of you know how Jack done it before? I was in a bad state last time he did, so I ain't remember it much — think he snuck out, wouldn't work for a big group of us anyway."

Race searched his memories, trying to recall any mention of how Jack had gotten out of the Refuge— but he hadn't been a newsie more than two years, and Jack had only been in and out twice in that time. Once was the most recent time, which Red had already mentioned, and the other— the other was just barely after Race had started selling papes, and he'd been much more focused on making enough money to buy his mother food than on whatever the other boys were doing. ( _Dammit, he should have listened more, thought more about others instead of just being a selfish little—_ )

"Not a clue. Aside from this fucker, we ain't that close to them Manhattan boys, 'cept judging by distance." Blink rolled his visible eye, leaning forward to rest a hand on Race's curls in a manner both affectionate and vaguely threatening. Red sighed and looked down at his hands, as though wondering if they'd be able to make anything of this step, while Mush glanced between him and Blink thoughtfully.

After a few moments, the mute boy's eyes lit up and he signed rapidly at Blink, who watched with a wary eye before slowly responding. "I— my file? What about it? I ain't gon' hand it in to nobody." Another volley of signs ( _did everyone here know sign language except for Race? Apparently, he'd have to learn sometime_ ), and a slow grin crept over the one-eyed newsie's face. "Now, that ain't too bad an idea, Mushy-man. You wanna give it a try?"

Mush nodded excitedly, and caught the pilfered file Blink tossed him with the ease of practice, scrambling up from the floor to lean against the wall by the window with a thoughtful expression. On the bed, Red made a face. "You sure this is a good idea, Mush?"

"Anyone mind tellin' me what's goin' on?" Race waved one hand in the air, pushing himself to his feet and returning to his bunk to lean against Red's shoulder tiredly, limbs still aching and weary from the Box ( _throat still raw from screaming, shoulders still stinging and stiff and now he thought about it, where was his shirt?_ ). "I don't speak no hand-sign."

Meeting eyes, Mush and Blink exchanged conspiratorial glances. Leaning forward, the latter smirked. "We's gonna file down them bars, punch 'em out, and escape through th' window."

 

* * *

_"—we's gotta set up a plan together, us on the outside and them on the in. We can't risk goin' in ourselves, so it's gonna be on them to figure a way outta the building. While they do, we's gonna be guard and lookout, keep an eye on th' area so we can make sure there won't be no trouble."_

_"And how long's this gonna take, Kelly?"_

_"Depends on the plan. Could be just a day or two, could be at least a week. We's gonna have to be ready to wait, shitty as that sounds. Move too fast, and we's all gonna be screwed."_  

* * *

 

"Right, that's a great idea, but that file's gonna be loud as fuck. We'll need a distraction."

"Well, Race, if you'se got any ideas—"

Race swallowed nervously, trying to breathe deeply ( _in through the nose, out through the mouth, focus_ ). "Someone who'll keep their attention away from this room once we's gotten in touch with Spot's boys. Can't do it until we've made contact, but after— after, we's gonna need to make sure them guards ain't lookin' too close at what we's doing here."

"What do you mean?"

Red's voice was concerned, and Race refused to look at him. This was the best he could do, after all— Race wasn't smart about stuff like Blink, he wasn't quiet and earnest like Mush had already proven to be, and hell if they let anything happen to Red since he knew the place best. But Race was— ( _Race was loud and vulgar and didn't know when to keep his mouth shut, and could've probably gotten an award for pissing people off, that was all he was good for anyways, and it wasn't like they were coming for him anyways— nobody was coming for him, just for Blink— nobody was coming for him—_ ) 

"What I mean is I'se going to pick me some fights, and rattle that Box so loud they ain't gonna hear a single scratch from your file."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this isn't as long as the last one, sorry!! but the ending point felt about right to me, and I'm hoping I'll be able to jump right in on the next chapter. (Sorry the writing voice has been jumping around so much — i'm nothing if not inconsistent, haha!)


	5. first contact (and deteriorate)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fortunately, everyone's on the same page (almost). Unfortunately, not everyone likes this part of the story.

By vote ( _read: by forceful domination of the planning process_ ), it was decided that Red, Blink, and Mush would do the first night excursion that evening, giving Race the night to recover from his week in the stifling, encroaching prison that was being Boxed. He protested, but when Blink wryly pointed out that he could barely even walk properly, and certainly not with any modicum of quietude, he sullenly agreed to take the night off and rest. His ordeal had worn him out, and the argument that had followed his last addition to the plan had only served to further deepen the shadows darting behind his eyes and the anxious twitching of his hands ( _something the others weren't sure Race had even noticed_ ).

( _"Race, what the fuck's wrong with your head?"_

_Gee, now didn't that sound familiar? "Look, I ain't gonna be useful like the rest of you, and that file's gonna be damn loud no matter what! If I can cause distractions while you'se makin' us a way out, them guards ain't gonna be worried 'bout what you'se doing in here!"_

_Red shook his head vehemently, more emotional than Race had seen him yet in their stay, and opened his mouth to retort but was cut off by a violent bout of coughing. It forced him to hunch over, pressing his stained kerchief to his lips and trying but failing to keep the blood contained. Race reached out with one still-sore arm to rub the older boy's back helplessly, but his hand was smacked away before he could make contact._

_It took Red a few deep breaths to find his voice again, but when he did it was raspy and cold. "No. No way in hell is you going back there, kid. If we need's a distraction, we'll find a way."_

_"What way?" Race could feel his hands shaking, from what he didn't know. "Red, what fuckin' other way do we got in this shithole?"_ )

Blink ( _somewhat reluctantly_ ) supported Red as they guided Mush down the halls of the Refuge, listening intently as Red whispered instructions and information about the guards' rounds in a raspy voice. They'd all agreed, once Race was asleep, that Red wouldn't be going out at night beyond this initial run — Race had been Boxed and Blink had only just arrived, but Mush had been with Red during that preceding week, and the two of them knew the older boy's condition had deteriorated sharply in that time. He had to come along this time, because he had been at the Refuge long enough to know the halls and the timing of the guards' rounds, but it was clear that it took a toll on him.

By the time they had wound their way down three halls, with a short flight of stairs in the middle, he was all but relying on Blink to stay upright. The door Red directed them to was locked, and he swore quietly under his breath before awkwardly signing as much to his companions. ( _This was another reason the three of them went together — they could communicate silently, while Race couldn't. Blink was determined to amend that once they got out, for sure — it was an immensely useful skill to have_ ).

Now, it meant he could hand Red off to Mush's ready arms, and pull out one of the hairpins he always kept stashed in his boots for situations just like this ( _well, not just like, but it was still breaking and entering of a sort. he may not be as much of a petty thief nowadays, since he had the Brooklyn newsies for family and income, but the skills were still and always would be relevant if one got in enough trouble_ ). It took a few tense minutes, as it was a rather heavy old lock that took a while to figure out, but eventually he was rewarded by the signature 'click' of the mechanism releasing, and the door swung inwards when he pushed the handle. 

The three of them slipped inside on tip-toe, and Mush pushed the door shut quietly before taking up position beside it, ear pressed against the seam to listen for footsteps. Blink and Red carefully stepped around sleeping boys and rats — this room was both larger and more crowded than the end-of-the-line — to make their way to the larger window. This one wasn't covered by bars, but a grate that was attached to the frame by a hinge. Presumably, Snyder thought that the room was high enough above the ground that nobody would try to escape out of it. ( _He was probably right_ ).

Blink stared out into the night, wishing ( _not for the first time_ ) that he still had both eyes. He'd started wearing the patch after hearing a story about why pirates had done it, to keep one eye adapted to darkness to see better at night, and hadn't actually needed it until he got caught up in a knife-fight that went spectacularly wrong. His old crowd — the folks he'd worked with before he became a newsie — had gotten him to a doctor in time to save his life, but not his eye, and so now the patch was an unfortunate necessity. The trip through the dark hallways had helped, but it still took a few minutes for his vision to really get used to the night.

After a few moments of trying to see past the grate, he gave in and asked Red to help him push it up and out of the way. The lock holding it in place was significantly easier to pick, and once it was opened he could really lean his head out to look. Nothing in the courtyard or by the wall, and he was almost ready to give up and head back when—

"Blink! Wait up a moment, we's climbin' up to you!"

There was Spot, crouched on a ledge one floor down with Smalls right at his heels like always, and a taller newsie in front of them that Blink almost recognized, but it wasn't until they'd lead the small convoy up a series of barely-visible handholds to just outside the window that the identity clicked. He couldn't help but smirk, and beckoned Red up to the window from where the boy had been resting against the wall.

"Fancy seein' you here, Jack Kelly."

( _The others fell silent after Race's outburst, and perhaps it was the silence that loosened his tongue, because he found himself continuing despite knowing he really shouldn't. "And besides, ain't nobody comin' to look for me. You says it yourself, Blink— Jack an' the others ain't got a clue I'se in here. Nobody's gonna miss if I'se missing, and I already got a rep as a troublemaker in here."_

_"Aw, come on, Race, ya think Spot ain't gonna wanna see your ugly mug?"_

_Blink had meant for it to sound like a joke, but Race just glanced away and shrugged helplessly. "Why would he? I ain't nobody important— just Racetrack Higgins who can't keep his damn mouth shut. Things'll probably go better without me around, really— you'se can all talk with your hand-signs so none of them guards'll hear, and you won't have to worry 'bout me holding you back."_

_He couldn't understand Mush's rapidly signed response, and Red's translation sounded somewhat stilted — though that could be due to his earlier coughing fit. There was something in his voice that Race couldn't quite pin down, but it sounded Not Good, and that meant he was probably just disappointed. "Race, you ain't holding us back none."_

_"Right." Race grimaced, gritting his teeth against a jolt of pain that shot through his back as he tugged his knees up to his chest and curled over them. "Sure I ain't. Say it enough, maybe you'll actually believe it."_ )

"You'se Blink, yeah?" Jack stuck out one hand, a little awkwardly in that he had to use the elbow to brace himself against the windowsill to keep from falling, and grinned crookedly. "Rough deal, gettin' stuck in here. Conlon asked us to help bust ya out, seein' as I know this place back-to-front." He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at Spot, who was holding onto the sill with both hands and a disgruntled expression. "And— Red! Been a while, bud! Where's you been, huh? Ain't seen you the last few times we stopped by."

It was weak, but Red grinned cheerily and reached out with one hand to muss Jack's hair affectionately. "Got moved to the end-of-the-line, for good. It's real great to see ya again, kid." 

"For good? Ain't you gotten any better?"

He shook his head ruefully. "No. Don't think I'm gonna be gettin' better, Jacky." For a few moments, Blink saw his face fall, but it was fleeting and the grin was soon carefully replaced. "Ain't me you'se gotta be worryin' about, anyways. We's got two of your boys to get outta here, and it's gonna take a while of doing."

Jack appeared about to argue back until the rest of the sentence caught up to him, and his mouth fell open in speechless surprise. Beside him, Spot took the opening to speak up, voice brusque in a weak attempt to hide the concern painted across his face. "Two? Blink, who else is in there with ya? It ain't—"

"Race? Sure is." Blink gestured to the door, pausing on Mush as the mute boy turned and smiled brightly at the visitors, "This is Mush, by the way. He's comin' with us." Because that much was for certain — Blink wasn't maybe the best judge of character, but even he could see that a fella with as soft a heart as Mush's didn't belong in a place like the Refuge. Once that introduction was passed, he returned to the subject of Race. "He ain't with us tonight — Red made him rest up, back at the room. Just got outta the box, wherever that is."

A flash of fear shot across Jack's face, too obvious for even Blink to miss. "Race got Boxed? How long?" When Blink paused, unsure of the answer himself, the Manhattan newsie turned to Red with all semblance of cheer gone. "Red, how long was Race in there?"

"A w—" The answer spluttered off into a series of hacking coughs that Red tried to stifle as best he could, lest they be heard. Blink and Mush exchanged quick glances, and the latter pressed his ear back to the door to make sure they didn't raise any alarms. Keeping an eye on him, Blink patted Red's back awkwardly as the older boy recovered his breath, steadying himself briefly before continuing his reply. "Kid was in for a week, Jacky. Just got out yesterday eve, didn't wake up 'till this afternoon. We had'ta let him rest, he was shakin' something awful while we was planning."

( _"Race, whaddya mean by that?"_

_He didn't look at Blink, didn't give any of them the chance to see that there were tears once again collecting on his lashes and making it hard to see — hadn't he been pathetic enough today? Why did he have to go and start crying again? Just fucking pathetic. "I mean what I says."_

_"Well, you gotta explain for the rest of us, 'cause I sure as hell don't understand."_

_"Race, we didn't mean anything like that. You'se just—"_

_Race covered his ears. He didn't want to hear it, didn't want to listen to more lying and lying. Why couldn't they just let him be useful for once? It's not like he was really worth all that much — just another orphan, living on pennies and making stupid bets at the races because what the hell else are you going to do with your life? Blink was probably lying too — no way Spot would want to see him, or help bust him out. He wasn't Brooklyn, he wasn't one of Spot's boys, he barely even knew the guy outside of a few conversations._

_Whoever was coming, they weren't coming for him._ ) 

Jack swore under his breath, leaning his head against the window frame for a moment as though to recollect his thoughts. "Dammit. I shoulda fuckin—" His words broke off, and he inhaled deeply in a clear attempt to settle himself. "Right. Okay. You'se all in the end-of-the-line, so we's gotta be breakin' you out from there, yeah? Red, you can tell me where it is?"

"Sure can. It's on the West side, one floor down from here and near the South corner— right sandwiched up against the wall," Red recited, brows furrowed in concentration, "So it'll be right concealed. We's gonna file down the bars on the window to pop 'em out, and escape from there— it'll take a while, but if one of you'se can get working from the outside, we can halve the time." He glanced between Jack and Spot, pausing to shoot Smalls— crouched on a perch just below the two, and listening with wide eyes— a warm grin. "Think you got any kids who can do that? We can start workin' tomorrow night, now we's talked to you."

Spot didn't let Jack respond, leaning in and nodding firmly as he spoke. "I can send boys in. We'll get shifts goin'— Kelly, you gonna have some Manhattan fellas help out, or what? I can get Smalls an' Tommy workin' on it easy, how about you? Since you'se got a guy inside too, an' all."

"I— Yeah, we's gonna help. I'll let Specs know, he an'— Finch, maybe, and Henry. Red, that file's gonna be awfully loud, 'specially at night. Folks is gonna notice, for sure—"

Blink glanced at Red ( _was it done and decided? Were they really gonna let Race—_ ), and the older boy sure didn't look happy, but he nodded shortly. "We've got a plan. Don't worry, they ain't gonna hear a thing." When he glanced back at Mush, checking to make sure their lookout hadn't heard any guards coming, he received an openly concerned gaze in return. Was the box really that bad? Some of Race's condition had to have been from before, it couldn't have all been because of that thing.

But with the tone of Red's voice and the look on Mush's face, suddenly he wasn't sure.

( _Beside him, he felt more than heard Red sigh. "Look, we'll cross that bridge when we hits it. Now, how's about Mush and Blink, you two come with me tonight to the old room? Race," And here the older boy's voice fell quiet, and a hand rested tentatively on Race's shoulder. A part of him wanted to shove it off — make it stop touching him, make everything stop touching him — but his limbs were sore and he just felt too tired to bother. Next to him, Red continued, "I want you to stay here tonight, okay? You'se still recovering, and you oughta rest up."_

_Rest up? Leave him out? Leave him alone in here? "No! No, I can— I can go help scout, I can—" Please don't leave him alone, please don't go and leave him all by himself in this room it's too big but it's too small he's trapped inside and it's too big and too small and—_

_"No, Race. Stay here. Sleep."_

_Please don't leave him alone in here. He doesn't want to be another dead kid alone in this room._ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are being set in motion! I hope y'all enjoyed having a non-Race-centered chapter — I figured I'd try focusing away from him a bit, to get a bit of an outside perspective on things. Here's hoping I can make the next one work for me soon!


	6. spitting words like memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race picks a fight. For once, it's on purpose.

"Is we sure about this? Race, you'se just gonna—"

"Well, I ain't decided what I wanna say. You'se got any ideas, Blink?" Race's expression was as carefully neutral as he could manage, but he was and had always been a particularly emotive person, so it was clear to those around him from the clench of his jaw, the wideness of his eyes, and the visible trembling of his hands that he was hardly at ease. "You'se real good with words and insults, a regular genius with 'em. I needs to make them real mad, else they'll just bust me up and watch us closer than now." ( _He had to get this right, this was all he was good for, he'd have to do it right this was all he could do he had to do it right_ ).

Frowning, Blink glanced at Mush for support, only to receive a forlorn shrug. Red was asleep on the bunk between Mush and Race, having overexerted himself by staying up the night before — the older boy seemed to be running a fever, and had taken most of the night to fall into a deep enough sleep that his restless discomfort finally faded. In a way, Race was glad his bunkmate was going to sleep through breakfast— Red was dealing with enough, after all, and he was a Brother with all the emphasis and whatnot. Race getting in trouble already made him worry, so at least it would be better for him to not have to see it ( _let this be the last time Race is a burden to someone who's already harmed themself by looking out for someone like him—_ ).

Any opportunity for continued conversation was abruptly cut off by a heavy knocking on the door, accompanied by a sharp grunt of "Breakfast!" that had those boys who were awake shooting to their feet. Mush leaned across to shake his previous bunkmate awake, pulling the younger boy out of his feverish haze just like every other morning. Before the door swung open, Blink brusquely patted Race on the back, knuckles tapping against the place between his shoulder-blades in what— coming from Blink— amounted to an extraordinary show of concern. Maybe he thought Race couldn't handle it? Was that why he had been frowning before? He shouldn't be worrying, Race could handle this ( _he had to, he had no choice, he needed to handle it so the others could do what they do best_ ).

As the boys lined up to file out of the room ( _Race and Blink and Mush, plus the feverish boy and two others who'd managed to wake themselves up in time, amounting to not quite half of the end-of-the-line's occupants_ ), the guard peered around the doorframe to glance at those who remained asleep. When his eyes fell on Red, curled around the bunk's single allotted pillow and breathing uneasily, he scoffed. "Chink's not waking up? About time, been waiting for that dirty _queer_ to kick it. Little fucker's more trouble than he's worth."

Race saw red ( _figuratively speaking_ ).

Before his mind had caught up to his actions, he found himself shoving the guard bodily away from the door and standing between them ( _as though a stupid brat like him could protect someone_ ) with fists raised. "Yeah, and you'se a pisser who looks like he picked a fight wit' a dumpster fire, and _lost_!" From where they'd started down the hall, Blink and Mush turned to stare at him in disbelief, the former apparently trying to convey with just his eyes exactly how stupid he thought Race was ( _the latter just reminded Race of a puppy who'd had its mother taken away too early_ ). "Ain't like I'd want to wake up either, knowin' it would mean having to see your ugly mu— _gh_!"

Race didn't quite manage to finish his sentence as the guard's fist caught him across the temple, knocking him against the wall and leaving his head ringing as he tried to regain his footing. A second blow to the other side of his head ensured that he couldn't make out a single word of whatever the guard growled at him ( _probably a threat or an insult, so he just did his best to act unaffected because if he gave in too easily they'd leave him alone and that couldn't happen he needed their eyes on him and no-one else so he had to pretend it didn't hurt and he didn't care_ ), but Mush circled back around to help him stand up steady, and he and Blink flanked Race as the small group made their way to the loo, and then to breakfast.

"You'se a real smartass, Racetrack." Muttering as they found a corner table, Blink shot the lone glass of water in Race's hands a dirty look ( _the guard had informed him that he wouldn't be given food today, as recompense for his 'attitude'_ ). "Woulda been better to wait on pissin' the bulls off 'til you'd at least eaten. Ain't gonna get much by way of food, down there."

A half-shrug was all Race had the energy for. "They gives us water, and bread sometimes. 'Sides, you sayin' I oughta have sat on my feet and ignored that shit he was sayin' about Red?"

"I'se sayin' you can't just pull shit like this without _plannin'_!"

Race grimaced ( _well, there goes a raised voice, that oughta catch someone's attention—_ ). Nearby, a guard appeared to have noticed Blink's exclamation, and walked over to their table with one hand on the cudgel at his hip. He stopped just between Blink and Race, looming threateningly over them as his shadow seemed to cover the entire table. "Mind tellin' me what's going on here, boys?" ( _It's now or never, here's his golden opportunity don't fucking waste it, don't make another bad bet on the wrong damn horse, this isn't a gamble he can afford to lose_ ).

He didn't even give himself a moment to breathe before grinning as brightly as he could ( _don't let them see what he's really feeling, make them think he's not afraid it will make them angry he wants them angry this is all he's good for anyways so he's got to damn well do it right_ ) and leaning back in his chair casually. "Oh, we's was just talkin' about you!" He did his best to observe the guard, looking for any clues on what would really get the man steaming ( _no wedding ring, unmarried? or maybe just call him ugly, most folks respond to that— or insult his manliness, that might work, this one in particular is pretty short — gotta work quick, run that mouth just like he always does, can't be that hard to fuck up intentionally for once_ ). "I, for one, was simply marvelin' at how one single person can be so damn ugly! That mug of yours could set a fella offa food for weeks, ain't no wonder ya ain't got a girl for it."

The guard bristled and dragged Race out of his seat by the collar of his dirt-stained and sun-faded shirt, letting the chair he'd been sitting in clatter backwards to the ground from the sudden motion. Suddenly, everyone in the room seemed to be watching them, other guards with their hands straying to weapons and their beady eyes calculating, other boys leaning away and whispering to each other. From the corner of his eye, Race could see a couple very young boys staring at him with wide eyes ( _they must think he's such an idiot, and they're not wrong he's a fucking idiot you're a fucking idiot Racetrack, but it's not like he's got a choice they need him_ ).

"That's some mouth you've got on you, rat." The guard leaned in close, until they were nearly nose-to-nose and Race could smell the odor of his breath. "You gonna keep running it off? Or do the smart thing, and shut up?"

With some force of will he hadn't known he had, Race met the guard's eyes and laughed. "Oh, I'd say you'se got the more impressive mouth, sir! Why, with breath that bad, you'se could put the whole city dump outta business!" The hand gripping his shirt collar tightened, and he found it somewhat more difficult to breathe ( _is that how Red always feels? must be rough_ ). "Of course, that's makin' the assumption you'd be able to find it, seein' as how you clearly ain't got much smarts to go on — the circus ain't even _in_ this borough, an' I'se hearin' they'se missing their _dwa—_ "

There was a somewhat sickening crack as the guard promptly shoved Race backwards onto the table, his head and shoulder exploding with a burst of pain at the contact. Spots blinked in front of his eyes ( _he'd missed seeing Spot last night, and Jack, and why hadn't they brought him with them? He could've seen Spot and Jack but instead they left him alone in that room where he might as well have been another dead kid in that room_ ), and the sounds around him seemed to suddenly be filtering through a layer of either water or cotton, muted and oddly muffled. Some of them were shouting, for sure, and the guard's hand released his collar only to make contact with his jaw in the form of a hard-knuckled fist — Race could taste blood, and hazily figured he must have bit his lip by accident during the impact.

It seemed like he was more than likely past words by now ( _that's fine, words only work for a while anyways, at least well-thought ones_ ), so he spat out a couple of curses in Italian ( _all the things his mother called his father when the man wasn't home and couldn't hurt them, angry words that protected the two of them for just a bit longer_ ) and kicked upwards at the guard's groin, grinning in satisfaction when he heard and felt the blow connect.

The satisfaction didn't last long, though, because even as the first guard staggered backwards with a pained grunt, another one arrived in the form of a hand hauling Race upright once more and then a large fist driving itself into his gut. He choked for a moment and vomited what little had been in his stomach _(nothing more than what little water he'd managed to drink before the confrontation_ ) onto the floor, coughing and gagging at the unpleasant taste it left in his mouth. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes from the pain, but he forced his lips into a grin that probably looked more like a grimace ( _he couldn't let them see that it hurt, they had to stay angry, he had to give them a reason to keep trying to break him and they wouldn't do that if they knew he was already broken_ ).

His mind didn't bother processing whatever it was the guards growled and yelled at him as he was dragged fully to his feet and then pulled from the room, the threats entering one ear and exiting the other without him even registering what they contained. On the way out, he managed to lock eyes with Blink — well, one eye, as he seemed to have received a blow to the other that was causing it to already begin swelling shut — and shoot the other newsie what he hoped was a grin. As long as the others kept their heads down, made sure to play along ( _did what they do best, just the same as how he was doing what he did best, or at least damn trying_ ), things should go smoothly enough.

Then the guards that hauled him down the basement stairs marched him right past the Boxes. Race broke off his tirade of autopilot insults ( _it was all too easy, really, to dredge up those memories and repeat them verbatim without stopping, too many words he'd heard too many times_ ), trying to make out with his good eye just where they were taking him if not the Boxes. 

( _This wasn't the plan. If he wasn't in a Box, how would they find him? How would he distract the guards? What was he supposed to do, this wasn't how the plan was supposed to go—_ )

"Here—" Race heard the clink of keys and the click of a heavy lock, followed by what sounded like a door opening. Not even moments later, he was all but thrown into a tiny room, larger than one of the Boxes but barely big enough to be called a closet and walled entirely in stone and concrete. His back flared with pain when it connected with the wall, and he barely had the energy to be thankful he hadn't hit his head yet again ( _Red would probably fuss over him, if he knew, and that wouldn't do because Race needed to keep fighting he didn't have any time to be fussed over he had to keep being a distraction he had to_ ). Disoriented by the shift, he didn't realize the door had shut behind him until he heard the lock once more clicking shut, and then— 

And then silence. He knew, logically, that he should have heard the guards' footsteps as they re-ascended the stairs — they weren't exactly the lightest of men, and their boots were heavy and thick-soled — but there was nothing. He couldn't hear the other boys in the Boxes ( _two had been crying, one had screamed profanities at the guards as they came by, another was muttering rapidly to himself as far as Race could tell_ ), or footsteps from the floor above, or even noise from outside. It was as though the air around him was frozen, no movement or sound to be heard.

Race stepped backwards, and tripped over something on the floor. Falling to a sitting position, he reached out blindly to grasp whatever it was he'd hit— and then immediately yanked his hand back upon feeling the unmistakeable texture of bones. 

His throat was parched and rough from use, there were tears blooming in the corners of his eyes to trail down his bruised and dirty cheeks, he felt ill and ever-so-slightly dizzy and a part of him was already starting to panic at the feeling of the walls closing in on him, but Race took a deep breath of the too-still air and launched into the beginning of another tirade. He had to make a racket, he had to make them angry, he had to keep their attention any way he could ( _the others were counting on him to, he couldn't let them down, even if no-one was able to hear him he had to scream this tiny room to pieces until the guards came to shut him up again, he would allow himself or any of the others to become another dead kid in this place_ ).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, this one was tough to get out. I'm mostly writing this story touch-and-go, so I've been having to figure out details as I get to them, which is challenging. Hope this is up to snuff, and apologies for the wait!
> 
> <3


	7. breaking out (in silence)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plan moves forward. That's all it can do, at this point, because no-one wants to move back.

Mush really, _really_ didn't like this plan.

Never mind the fact that Blink's file was _tiny_ , and the boys who'd shown up to help that night didn't have one much bigger, which meant it would take a very long time to get through the bars if they didn't find better tools. Never mind that Red was barely able to wake up, and the time he spent awake was just spent trying to breath properly between bouts of painfully wet coughing. Never mind that Antsy wasn't talking to him after what happened at breakfast ( _and this coming from his first friend in the Refuge was harsh_ ).

He didn't like Race's part. Fair, Mush probably knew Race the least — he hadn't been the boy's bunkmate like Red, or sold papes with him like Blink, and since Race didn't know any sign language it wasn't like they'd been able to talk all that much — but Mush knew _people_. When you were disabled in any manner, you learned a lot about observing a person's mood from the faces they made and the way they held themselves, because you had to be able to predict how they were going to treat you. Most folks looked at him with disgust disguised as pity, or disdain under the guise of indifference. He got that, it was kind of fair, a missing tongue wasn't exactly a _pretty_ sight to see.

But Race had gotten over that in the blink of an eye, and looked at Mush like a friend. Like he thought Mush was someone he could trust, someone who'd have his back. Not many people looked at Mush like that ( _Blink did, Red did, Antsy had once upon a time_ ).

And then it took him too long to realize that behind that look, behind Race's bravado and mood whiplash, the younger boy thought Mush was _better_ than him. That Mush — that _all_ of them — would be better off without him. It took him until that night, standing by the window and filing until his hands were sore, to realize just why he'd disliked the way Race's eyes looked when he was taken away. Maybe Race hadn't realized it, but Mush knew what he saw.

A part of Race didn't expect to get out with them.

 

* * *

_There was a tiny, closed window near the top of the room, so Race could see when the daylight faded to darkness. He'd taken a break from yelling to look around the tiny room, searching for something else that might help him cause a distraction. The first night, he'd made himself hoarse singing the bawdiest, most insulting bar songs he knew (the folks by the races liked their drink, and they liked their tunes, and they especially liked when he learned to sing along), hoping desperately that they would make their way up enough to bother the guards (at the very least). Nobody had come down to yell at him, but he hadn't noticed any other disturbances (though that could just be this damned room), so he held onto the hope that the others hadn't gotten caught yet (at least they were doing their jobs, despite him making a right fucking mess of his)._

_He'd tried switching it up for a few nights after that, but continually failed to get any real reaction (failure, what a fucking failure, what a fucking joke, maybe he just deserved to stay in this damned room and fail forever), and his only solace was the small beam of light from the window and the knowledge that none of the guards delivering his semi-daily meals seemed any angrier than usual, which indicated that nothing had happened yet._

_So here he was, five days in and contemplating the stone wall beneath the window. At first, Race had thought it was stones laid into cement, just to make sure not even the wall would be comfortable to rest against, but two days ago he'd punched it in anger and been surprised by a small cascade of dirt that trickled out of the crack between the stones he'd hit. His knuckles were split and bleeding, but at this point he barely noticed the sting. After further observation, during the daylight when he could actually see and when he knew the others would be resting instead of working, he'd come to the realization that the stones were just a single layer laid into what was actually a wall of musty, packed dirt. At least, two of them were — the other two seemed to be actual cement, including the one the door was set into._

_The metal door that would probably make a whole lot of noise if he hit it hard enough._

_He'd tried kicking it, the second night, but all that had done was make his leg hurt and leave bruises on his foot, so that was out of the question. The rocks, on the other hand, were plenty big and a whole lot heavier than a scrawny kid's leg, so if he could just get one out of the wall—_

_Well, it was a better plan than he'd had yet (stupid, useless Race, can't even make a good plan), so while he still had daylight on his side, he dug his shaking fingers into the sides of one of the stones and set to work._

* * *

 

Blink winced. At breakfast, one of the boys from the lower rooms had covertly stopped by their table to warn them that he hadn't heard any shouting that night. "I don't know what you're all doing, but I know that kid in the basement is part of it. He's been yelling at night, all them bulls have been grumbling about it, but he was real quiet last night." He'd paused, for a moment, before sighing and half-shrugging. "Hope he's okay."

Of course, at the time, he'd been too focused on slipping a glass of water into his shirt to bring back to the end-of-the-line for Red, who'd missed two breakfasts in a row, to really linger on the implications of what the kid had said. They'd been at work on the bars for five nights now, but last night his file had finally given up the ghost and fallen apart. The one Finch had scrounged up wasn't doing much better, and Blink would give it maybe another night before it too would be useless. They'd only gotten through the bottoms of three of the four bars, and _still_ hadn't figured out a way to hide the missing bars from the morning guards once they started actually getting them out.

So tonight, he had nothing to do but sit and watch the occasional spark fly as Smalls and Henry took turns with the file to work at the bottom edge of the fourth bar, keeping one ear focused on Red's unsteady breathing and the other searching for _any_ bit of noise that would let them know Race was still kicking.

He was the only one awake in the room — with their file broken, there was nothing much for them to do, so Mush had gone to sleep with Red and left Blink to keep an eye on things. It wasn't like he minded — as a rule, Blink tried not to sleep too often when stuck in unfamiliar or unsafe places. Better to keep his guard up. But the lack of sleep and work combined to leave a great deal of time for thinking, which _wasn't_ something he was particularly fond of doing. Thinking could lead to imagining, imagining could lead to worrying — it was just a better idea in general to not think too much past what was necessary for each moment. 

Eventually, though, there came a point where he really couldn't do anything else. "Hey— Henry, right?" The Manhattan newsie gave him a nervous nod, all wide eyes and messy hair, and Blink jabbed a finger vaguely downwards. "You think you'se can go find a window to the basement? I'se want to make sure Race ain't gone nuts and mumbly down there. Think you can do that?"

"S-Sure thing!" 

The kid scrambled away from the window with all the grace of a monkey ( _that is to say, no grace, but a great deal of agility_ ), leaving Smalls to wink at Blink cheerfully. "Oh _my_ , could it be the great an' mighty Kid Blink is _worryin'_ about his buddy? How _touchin'_ , how _movin'_ , how utterly _sweet_!"

"Fuck you too, Smalls."

He wasn't _worried_. It was just a good idea to make sure Race was okay, that was all— he was part of the team, after all. They couldn't afford to leave him behind.

 

* * *

_It took him two days and nights to dig out a rock (he had to stop and start a few times when guards came by, switch rocks once or twice to find one that was close enough to the surface to really get underneath), but by the time his seventh night in the Room came around (when he'd started thinking of it like that, he wasn't sure) Race had successfully acquired a large rock just light enough to lift without making his back violently protest. He'd succeeded in pissing the meal-delivering guard off enough to earn a fresh shiner over his eye, just in time to take over for the one that had been slowly healing, but since it was daytime it hardly did any good. He had to make sure to be extra loud tonight to make up for it (the others were counting on him, right? they had to be, this couldn't be for nothing)._

_A few attempts at swinging the rock proved that while it was light enough to lift, he couldn't just hit stuff with it on his own, so while moonlight filtered in weakly through the window, he gathered his guts and grabbed one of the long bones from the floor (what in the world were they from? he sure hoped they weren't from a kid, but at this point he was just glad they were large enough to use). After some touch-and-go (and his shirt being entirely torn to strips, leaving him with just his vest and stained undershirt), he'd managed to fasten the rock solidly enough to the long bone to make a crude hammer of sorts._

_He had to sit down for a few moments, blinking away the spots dancing in front of his eyes. Race hadn't slept for— probably about those two days, by his best estimate, and only minimally since he'd gone in— and it was starting to catch up to him just like the food he hadn't eaten today (because yesterday had been the meal day)._

_From nowhere, he felt his breath hitch and an almost-sob catch in his throat, and he set down the hammer to rest his aching head on his knees. There weren't any tears threatening to fall this time — Race would've been surprised if he had enough water left in his body for tears, the amount he got down here — but the sobs scraped against the inside of his throat and echoed in the tiny room, and the feeling of aloneness seemed to swallow him. It had been a week since he'd been dragged down here, since he'd seen or heard a thing from any of the others — since he'd heard any voice other than his own, even. There hadn't been any sign of the others making progress, and a part of Race was starting to wonder if they'd already made it out and just left him behind._

_It would probably be the smart thing to do. Stuck down here like he was, they'd have to go through extra risk to wait for him to get out, and no way would they go to the trouble to getting him upstairs on their own. He was just Racetrack, just the funny guy with a big mouth and too many echoing words to spit at folks, not smart or kind or resourceful like the others. They didn't need him, so it was just fine for them to leave him here._

_It was probably what he deserved._

* * *

 

Of all the things happening that night, Spot hadn't expected to hear a hollow _thud_ echoing up from the lower levels of the building. He'd managed to find another file — a bigger, sturdier one, picked right from a metalworker's pocket and sure to do a better job than the ones they'd been using — and he'd been taking turns with Specs (on duty from Manhattan that night) to work on the bottom of the fourth bar with it. They'd had to take a break for a night after their file broke, but if they could keep up the pace from here he thought they might be able to bust Blink and the others out within the week. Finish this bar tonight, then file down the tops one a night for four more days, and on the sixth night they'd be able to make the last breaks and finally be done with this mess.

But no, he nearly dropped the file ( _did drop it, in fact, but Mush was on duty that night and had very quick reflexes_ ) at the loud noise, and glanced down half-expecting to see smoke and hear sirens. "You'se heard that too, right?"

"Sure did." Specs looked around too, squinting into the night. "Don't look like anything dangerous. Sounded like it came from this building, too — Mush, you'se got any idea what sorta stuff they'se got down in the basement?" Upon receiving a helpless shrug and a couple of hand-signs neither of them could understand ( _Spot really needed to get Blink to teach him how to understand sign language_ ), the Manhattan newsie sighed. "Well, maybe we'se can get a look. Spot, you'se smaller and better'n I am at sneakin', you wanna go check it out?"

He didn't particularly, but it _was_ somewhat concerning and he may as well since they still only had one file to work with between the two of them. Mush could keep watch just as well as he could while Specs worked, so he scrambled down one of the routes Jack had shown them the first night here and crept along the base of the building, searching for a window into this mysterious basement. There were a few, along ground level, but most of them didn't show him much besides a fairly regular-looking basement with a few odd metal boxes along one wall. He crouched by one of these windows, watching, but the next _thud_ wasn't accompanied by any unusual movement from them, so he moved on.

The window right at the corner of the building, however, finally yielded an answer. When Spot leaned down to peer into this one, careful not to block the faint moonlight that was his only illumination, he was rewarded by the sight of a scrawny boy with messy brownish-red hair in a bare, closet-like room, gearing up to hit a heavy-looking door with what looked like a stone-age hammer made from an unshaped rock and— was that a _bone_? Where the _hell_ had the kid gotten a bone like that? He was speaking, a running stream of words that Spot couldn't quite interpret for a few moments until he realized they weren't even in English.

In fact, as he listened a little longer, the language suddenly became quite familiar. _Italian_.

" _Racetrack_? Is that you?"

The crude hammer, about to swing for the door again, jerked to a stop and fell to the floor as the boy whirled around, hands raised as though ready to fight or defend. Then Spot saw one eye widen (the other appeared to be swollen half-shut), and within moments there were hands with cracked fingernails and streaks of dried blood clinging to the tiny opening as Race scrambled to climb the wall and pull himself up as close to Spot as he could. It seemed to take him a few moments to speak, and when he did it was with a dry whisper. 

" _Spot_?"

Now that the boy's face was in the light, Spot realized Race looked _awful_. Aside from the bruise around his swollen eye, there were other healing bruises making a patchwork across his face, and the apparent darkness of his hair was the result of a mixture of dirt and— Spot winced— dried blood that had matted there. His face had acquired a sort of gauntness it hadn't possessed before, a hollowness to his cheeks and eyes that gave him an almost mad look. Race's lips were dry and cracked, and he looked at Spot as though he thought he might be an illusion, or a trick of the light.

In that moment, Spot felt like the entire plan could _go to hell_. "Race, what the hell's you doing? Was that you makin' that noise?"

"I—" Race broke off into coughs, clearing his throat painfully before trying again. "Yeah, sure was. I'se gotta distract the bulls, see? I'se gotta make noise so's they don't catch you all. 's all _I'm_ good for anyhow."

"What the _fuck_." The other boy winced, and Spot sighed— talking nice wasn't really his specialty, but there was clearly something wrong as fuck here. No way in hell was this kid— this kid with a bright smile, and a quick wit, and more energy than the goddamn _sun_ — allowed to think he was in any way so little as to be equatable with a place like this. "No, Race, _look_ — what does you mean, 'all you're good for'? Tell me one of them didn't say that to you'se—"

"No! No, I just—"

Now, let it never be said that Spot Conlon was soft-hearted, but when Race's voice cracked and broke into a sob, he felt like a little part of him somewhere inside had melted. A single tear managed to form and roll down the boy's cheek, cutting a clean path through the grime, and Race rubbed it away with an angry look as though it had personally offended him by existing. The sobs continued, sounding almost painful in their intensity, and Spot watched almost helplessly as Race's shoulders shook and his fingers clenched to hold onto the tiny windowsill instead of falling. 

_Damn_ it, hell if Race was technically a Manhattan newsie. He was good as one of Spot's boys, and hell if Spot would let him continue like this. It was _un-fucking-acceptable_. "Race— _Racetrack_ , listen to me. Listen to me, right? _C'mon._ " After a few moments of this, Race managed to lift his eyes to Spot's again. "Now you _look at me_ , Racetrack Higgins. You'se worth more than this entire stinkin' building, _you hear me_? You'se better than this mess, and we's going to get you out of here. You hear that, Race? We's getting you the fuck out of here soon as we can, and you'se never allowed to think this shithole is all you're good for _ever again_ , got it?" Race opened his mouth as though to protest, and Spot shook his head. "Don't you _start_. We's got you, you hear? We ain't leaving you here, and you better damn _believe_ that."

Another broken sob escaped Race's throat, and before Spot quite knew what he was doing he had leaned forward to press their foreheads together, reaching down with one hand to cup the side of Race's face as gently as someone like him could. It earned him small gasp and another tear-track, making its way down Race's other cheek just as silently as the first. What else could he _say_? Spot usually hated meaningless words, _but—_ "It's gonna be okay, you know? You'se gonna be okay, Race."

He could feel the heat radiating off of Race's skin— perhaps a low fever, perhaps not, Spot couldn't really tell— and feel the puff of breath as the other boy spoke, but he still barely heard the response even as it was whispered bare inches from his lips.

" _Thanks, Spot._ "

 

* * *

_Maybe it was Spot's visit, or maybe it was the knowledge that everyone was still here and still working (instead of leaving him behind like it would be smart to do), but Race managed to bully through the next three nights with more energy than he'd had since that bad bet fell through— how long ago was it? He wasn't sure at this point. It can't have been a month yet, right? Figuring it out would require more time and energy than he had at his disposal, so Race brushed it aside and fell into a routine. Stay awake until a bit past noon (as far as he could tell), nap until it was dark, and make an absolute racket until daybreak. He didn't manage to sleep very well, of course, and the meal delivered on the second day since Spot's visit was only water (looks like he'd pissed them enough to earn no-food privileges), but in spite of that Race allowed himself to feel almost hopeful._

_The fourth day was where it all went sour, of course._

_Smalls had stopped by the night before to let him know they were almost ahead of schedule, and could probably be all done the next night, and Race had allowed himself to make an extra loud nuisance of himself that night in what little celebration he could afford. He even let himself break into song, one or two of the raunchiest ones he'd learned from the guys at the races, and— because he was too exhausted and excited to care— one old Irish drinking song his father had sung, the few times the drink turned him happy instead of furious. It was in Gaelic, not English, so he doubted any of the guards would be able to actually tell what he was saying (fine for him, since it wasn't actually a particularly insulting or inappropriate song by any standards), but he figured they'd find the noise irritating on its own._

_When mealtime was delivered as a glass of water thrown in his face, Race figured he'd probably been right. But then, instead of just barking at him and leaving, the two guards (there was usually just one, why were there two) dragged him out of the room for the first time in— in how many days, he didn't know— and stared down at him with dark, furious eyes._

_Before he quite realized he was speaking, Race had grinned up at them and said, "Trouble sleeping, fellas?"_

_He'd meant to follow it up with something a bit more biting, a bit more teasing, but before he could continue he found himself lifted into the air and slammed against the wall, the sharp pain of his head making contact only second to the sudden feeling of not being able to breath. The guard who had grabbed him held him in place with one meaty hand around Race's neck, high enough that his feet couldn't quite touch the ground and just kicked wildly as he tried to break free. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe this was hardly fair—_

_The hand let go and he fell like a stone, crumpling to a heap on the floor and gasping for breath. It was only a brief reprieve, because the moment he started getting to his feet something— too hard to be a foot or a fist, the wrong shape for a cudgel— slammed into his side and sent him staggering against the wall with a groan. When he pressed a hand to the spot, it came away slightly sticky, and he had the sickening feeling that if the basement had better lighting, he would probably be seeing red. He didn't have time to continue that line of thought, however, because another blow— this one almost certainly a cudgel, or at least something closer to one— struck him across the head, and he was unconscious before he hit the ground._

* * *

 

"Race. _Race_ , wake up."

He came to slowly, with the world making dizzying circles around his head as he struggles to focus in the dim light of the basement ( _at least he was in the same place he last remembered, for once — it felt oddly calming, as though for a moment the world had stopped moving along with him instead of dragging him along for the ride_ ). It still hurt a bit to breathe, and Race winced at the ache as he groggily prodded at what were definitely bruises encircling his neck— but at least he could breathe, which couldn't be said of whoever was shaking his shoulder in an oddly familiar way. The person who'd woken him had broken off into a bout of violent coughing, the sound wet and unpleasant, and as Race's eyes slowly refocused and adapted to the darkness of the room, he recognised them.

"Red? What're— why is you here?"

The older boy tried to speak, but only succeeded in another coughing fit, something dark and wet staining his lips and splattering to the ground next to them. After a few desperate gasps, the sound like a drowning man trying to breathe ( _and Race had heard that, had seen a fella die in the river after his buddies couldn't fish him out in time_ ), Red finally managed to force out, "They'se— t-they'se gettin out now, Race. I'se come to get you out." He broke off into another round of painful, almost gurgling coughs that brought him  to a hunched position on the ground, one hand pressed over his mouth as though it might help. 

Race pushed himself upright, ignoring the sharp sting reminding him that his side was injured _(didn't seem to be bleeding at least, well, bleeding anymore, of course it had been but it didn't seem to be anymore_ ) as he reached over to help support his— well, friend. "You'se mad, Red Hua, comin' down here in that condition instead of gettin' out while you _could_. Why'd you do somethin' like that for me, huh?"

"You'se—" Red laughed weakly, eyes crinkling into hollow slits even as his lips pulled into a pained smile, "You'se got a _whole_ lot to live for, kid. I ain't, not now. Nothing better for what's left of me to do."

_No_. No ( _no no no nonononono_ ), that wasn't acceptable, Race wouldn't accept it. After everything, after weeks in this shithole ( _for him, months for Red, he didn't even know how long Red had been in except he knew exactly how long and it was too long for it to end like this in some dirty basement_ )— "No. No goddamn _way_. We'se getting out together, or not at all, you hear me?"

For a few moments, Red just blinked at him, as though in surprise. Presently, however, he smiles ever so slightly and bowed his head, voice little more than a whisper. "Ain't nobody ever said that to me before."

"Yeah, I know." He hadn't either, not for the longest time— but then there had been the Manhattan boys ( _Jack and Crutchie, Specs and Romeo and silly Albert with his dreams of dinosaurs and good food_ ), there had been Red and Mush, Blink and the Brooklyn newsies and Spot— and now, Race suddenly found himself realizing, he wasn't alone. There were folks outside waiting for them to get out, and he wasn't going to let them down _(for once, for the first time in his life, maybe he could make this work for the first time_ ).

"Come on, let's go."

Neither of them were going to become more dead kids in this place. _Race would not accept that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure I've only got one or two chapters left after this! yaaaaaay!
> 
> Sorry this one took a little while to finish up — I hope you all like it alright! :)


	8. climbing (and falling)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They make it out. Almost.

_This wasn't right. This couldn't be right._

* * *

 

Race and Red supported each other slowly up the basement stairs, leaving bloodstains on the dirt and concrete in their wake and turning their heads away from the crying boys in the Boxes along the wall. Three steps from the top, Red collapsed, and would have fallen back down to the floor if Race hadn't caught him ( _every part of his body screaming in protest but it didn't matter he'd done so much screaming he just didn't care_ ). "Hey— hey, c'mon, let's go. Get on my back."

"Race, you'se hurt! Just leave me, it's o—" 

"It damn well ain't okay, and you weight 'bout as much as a sack of papes anyways." Truthfully, he weighed a bit more, but Race gritted his teeth as Red reluctantly settled his weight onto his back and didn't make a sound, because they were getting out together and if he had to carry them out then _so be it_. The basement door was blessedly silent as it swung open, and he peered down the dark halls for a few moments to orient himself before heading for the end-of-the-line ( _ironic, how their prison was now their escape route_ ). "Red, you'se still with me?" 

A bout of wet coughs was his response, but it was followed by a soft, "Yeah, I'se here," and that was the best he could hope for now.  
  


* * *

 

Jack peered anxiously through the window, trying to see any movement through the crack between the door and the frame across the room. He shifted his hands, careful to avoid the rough edges of the punched-out bars ( _he already had a couple nicks and scratches from them_ ), and forced himself to breathe slowly instead of yelling for everyone to hurry up. Spot was perched on the ledge beside him, picking at his nails in an effort to look unconcerned ( _Jack wasn't convinced — he knew what concern looked like as well as the next guy, he lived with Specs and Crutchie for cryin' out loud_ ). "What's takin' them so long, huh? We's gonna still be here at sun-up at this rate." 

"Basement's a long way down, Kelly." Spot's voice was deceptively light, with an undercurrent of tightness he couldn't quite disguise. "And Race was in a locked room."

" _Room_?" Well, that wasn't on. "I thought he was Boxed."

Spot blinked a few times in confusion. "You mean they ain't the same thing?"

Groaning, Jack hit his head ( _lightly, didn't need to hurt himself at a time like this_ ) against the wall before letting it rest there. "Damn well ain't. Bein' Boxed is— they puts you in a metal box, 'bout the size of a doghouse without the pointy roof. Holes poked in the top, so you gets jabbed by the edges if you try to sit up. Been a while, so I don't really remember how they feeds you, but— it sure ain't a room."

Something a little sick seemed to tint Spot's expression, and he spit at the ground in disgust. "You mean there was _kids_ in those? That's— _fuck_. So what was with the room, then? I seen it for sure, he weren't in no box."

"It—" A bitter note finds its way into Jack's voice ( _absolutely without his permission_ ), "—that's the Isolation Room. Ain't gonna lie, I'se pretty sure they built it just for me." Spot glances at him with something almost like sympathy, but that's laughable— he's _Spot Conlon_ , after all. "Once you'se inside, you can't hear a damn thing but your own voice. Originally, it was supposed to be entirely dark — I think they only unblocked the window after one kid suffocated to death in there."

" _Fuck_."

 

* * *

_It wasn't supposed to go like this, they were supposed to all get out together._

* * *

 

"Red, Race, you'se made it!" Race didn't exactly sob out loud when he and Red finally staggered through the door to the end-of-the-line to see two achingly familiar faces at the window, but his breathe hitched and the tears he thought he'd run out of at least two days ago returned with a familiar sting. In the dim moonlight, Jack's face was pale but emblazoned with a brilliant, if wan, smile upon spotting them, and he beckoned with his free hand. "C'mon, hurry over! We's already got Mush and Blink out, just need you both and we'll be on our way!"

It took him a few broken attempts to reach the window, stopping once or twice to lean against the bedposts or do a quick hop-step over rats and other vermin, but presently he found himself just bare feet away from the leaders of the Manhattan and Brooklyn newsies, for once working together. Their faces blurred in front of his eyes, and there was so much to say ( _what could he say to Jack, to apologize, to ask for forgiveness, to thank them for coming back they really came back_ ), but he could already tell the sky was a shade lighter than true night, and there was just no time. " _Here_ — take Red, you'se gotta carry him out— Red, I'se gonna pass you over to Jack, okay? He ain't gonna drop you, no worries—"

More blood splattered the windowsill as Red coughed weakly, hooking his arms around Jack's neck as Race set him down on the sill, and then swinging first his good leg and then his bad over so Jack could sling them over his free arm and start his descent to the apparent escape route ( _by the wall, Specs was visible, acting as a lookout and a guide_ ).

Race's side _burned_ as he tried to haul himself up onto the sill to follow and he groaned, buckling over and pressing a hand to the patch of dried blood staining his undershirt there _(it had been easier to carry Red without his vest getting in the way, so he'd left it behind_ ). A rough, calloused hand grabbed onto his wrist and tugged, and he looked up to see something that he might call concern ( _if he didn't know any better, at least_ ) on Spot's face as the other boy pulled him upright. Between the two of them, they managed to get him through the opening with only a few nicks and scratches from the sharp edges of the broken bars ( _although, if he were being honest, most of the credit was really due to Spot's formidable arm muscles_ ).

One hand pressed against his back ( _and he resolutely didn't flinch at the touch no matter what because at the very least he knew Spot wouldn't hurt him_ ), steadying him as he wavered on the small footholds Spot had pointed out to use, and then they began their own descent.

_They were going to make it._

 

* * *

 

They weren't going to make it.

Jack could already see it coming — he'd been here too many times _not_ to, a part of his mind was hardwired for it, it was a matter of _survival_ — and he didn't like it, but he knew what needed to be done. The sky was getting too light, and there would be a guard round coming around this side of the building any moment, and Spot and Race still weren't even on the _ground_. He wasn't blaming them — even from where he was standing, Jack could see the way Spot had to steady Race every now and then, and he was pretty sure not all of the dark spots on Race's shirt were from dirt. It wasn't their fault.

But if he didn't do anything, they would all be caught, and that would be even more weight on his conscience.

"They'se not gonna make it, is they, Jack." 

Red's voice over his shoulder was weak, and each word escaped with a slight gurgle that made Jack's stomach turn over in cold fear. His friend had lost weight in the time since they'd met, and the arms draped over his neck were feverishly warm and trembling even with the effort of holding on. He sighed and shook his head. "Not like this, they ain't."

A thin, whispery laugh brushed past his ear with a puff of warm breath. "Jacky, let me down. I can distract the guards while you'se all get out." When Jack turned, anger and worry creating a roar in his ears, Red smiled at him with red-stained teeth. "We both know I ain't got much—" He broke off into coughing, blood splattering the ground beside them as he turned his head away until the fit subsided, "—much time left. Maybe a month, if that. I ain't gonna be anything but a burden to you'se. Let me go, _yeah_?"

It felt as though Jack's feet were frozen. They weren't going to make it. There was only one thing he could do.

 

* * *

_He'd said they would get out together, all of them. Otherwise, what was the point?_

* * *

 

When his feet hit the ground, Race nearly fell to his knees — the impact sent another jolt of pain shooting through what felt like every bone and muscle in his body. He could feel his arms shaking from the exertion of slowly lowering himself down the wall one step at a time, and a part of him felt nauseous— but he knew there wouldn't be anything to throw up, seeing as how his past few meals hadn't been anything but water, so he took a deep breath and swallowed the sick feeling. A warm hand wrapped around his wrist and he ( _didn't flinch, didn't pull away, didn't cry out it was just Spot he was safe_ ) was tugged into a run to where Specs was waiting to pull him into the branches of a conveniently overhanging tree. That must have been where the others had gotten in and out.

As they reached the tree, he realized there was no way he would have the strength to jump high enough up to reach Specs' waiting hands, and he glanced at Spot in a panic. "Spot, I ain't gonna— _I can't_ —"

"You won't have to— c'mon, _up_!" The Brooklyn newsie didn't give him a moment more before bending down and grabbing Race around the knees, muscles tensing as he bodily lifted him into the air. "You'se can reach, right? Up, as far as you can— Specs, got him?"

Race stretched his arms up, the sting in his eyes becoming trickling tears as the motion tugged at his wounded side, and didn't have to wait more than a few seconds before warm, familiar hands wrapped around his arms at the elbow and pulled him upwards. As soon as he had a grip on the branch, Specs abandoned his arms to pull at his shoulders and then waist, grunting with the effort and breathing heavily through his nose ( _from the sweat beaded on his forehead, Race surmised he'd probably done the same with Blink and Mush earlier, and felt a wave of startled appreciation for his fellow newsie that he tamped down furiously because it was not the time_ ). 

In time, they were both situated on the branch, and Specs had left Race braced against the place where the branch split off from a larger, sturdier limb to grab Spot's arms as the other boy jumped up. While he waited, catching his breath and trying not to let any more tears escape as he held a hand to his stinging side ( _it was a bit damp— whatever had happened, the clot must have broken while he was moving_ ), he looked around the tree to try and figure out where Jack and Red had gone. They'd gotten down before Race and Spot had, so shouldn't they be further along?

He couldn't find them, and turned to ask Specs where they'd gotten to when— 

"Jack! _Jack, no, what's you—_ " 

A calloused hand covered his mouth before he could finish his ( _entirely justified_ ) exclamation, and he ( _panicked, they couldn't shut him up, let them fucking try he would not shut up he would not be another dead kid in—_ ) bit down on the top finger as hard as he could. Beside him, Spot swore as quietly as he could, and Race belatedly realized that it had been Spot's hand, not a guard or a cop, that had covered his mouth.

Specs had followed his gaze, and echoed the expletive bitterly. " _Fuck_. Damn it all to— Look, Race, Spot, we's gotta move. They's buying us time, right? We can't— we gotta use it or lose it, and Jack'll be real mad if we don't get outta here _right now_."

When Race failed to budge, limbs as frozen as his bloodshot eyes, Spot wrapped one ( _unfairly strong_ ) arm around his shoulders and pulled. "Racetrack, does you _want_ to go back in there? Jack knows what he's doing— Race, _please_ ," And wasn't that weird, because there was no way he was hearing the king of Brooklyn say 'please', he had to be making things up ( _it wouldn't be the first time, Race imagined he'd heard a lot of voices while he was stuck in the Room_ ), there was just _no way—_ "Please, just come on with us, c'mon back home. We ain't come all this way to leave you stuck here, right? C'mon home." 

With what felt like a mountain's-worth of effort, he tore his eyes away from where a pair of guards were dragging Jack ( _nose bloodied, knuckles scraped, shirt half-untucked_ ) and Red ( _unconscious, dark blood trailing from the corner of his mouth and both nostrils, looking far too small and far too still_ ) back to the entrance of the building, and followed Specs and Spot across the tree's branches to where a whole contingent of newsies were waiting in the early dawn light to bring them home.

 

* * *

 

"Jack, you'se a real damned fool, you know that?"

He did, but he was too busy pinching the bridge of his nose to stop the bleeding to really care. Race and his friends had gotten out safe, after all— he'd seen them in the tree with Specs, he knew they were in good hands, they'd make it home alright— and Jack wasn't even _close_ to out of ideas for how to escape on his own ( _it was what he was good at, after all— there was a reason he'd never tried to take any of the other boys with him_ ). "You wouldnt'a been able to put up enough of a fight to distract 'em long enough, and I ain't met no part of this building that can hold me long yet."

Laying on the bed beside him, feverish and trying to breath, Red shook his head and brushed the back of one blood-stained hand across his suspiciously damp eyes. "But you _hates_ this place, told me as much last time. Why'd you be willing to get stuck in here again, after all it's done to you?"

Why indeed. Jack tried to crack a smile ( _it was hard, the way his lip was swelling_ ), and reached over to rest one hand on the older boy's leg ( _the mangled one— an accident from one of the factory machines when he was younger, as Red told it, it had reminded Jack so much of Crutchie when they first met that he couldn't help but warm up to the owner like he would to his own dearest friend_ ).

"I wasn't about to let you go all alone. I couldn'ta."

A strangled, choked sob, barely a whisper. "I don't wanna die, Jacky. _I don't—_ I ain't even got a chance to say goodbye to my sisters. I don't— _I'm scared, Jacky._ "

If his voice cracked as he spoke, if his hand trembled, neither of them mentioned it. "I know. I— _I know_. I'll tell 'em for you, okay? I'll be here till the end, _I'll—_ I'm here. _I'm here_ , okay?" 

" _Okay._ "

 

* * *

_This wasn't supposed to be how it ended._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update! Sorry this chapter's so short, but the epilogue should be somewhat satisfying! :)


	9. epilogue (in nineteen days)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race recovers. Slowly, but surely, things creep closer to 'okay'.

Twenty minutes after the Refuge, Specs leads Race into the Lodging House bedroom he hasn't seen in weeks, his faded blue-and-white-and-purple blanket cleaned and tucked as carefully as possible around what looks like a slightly newer, slightly less lumpy mattress on the same metal bed-frame. They've already stopped at the communal bathroom, where Romeo was waiting with a change of fresh clothes that almost look like they've been washed recently, and finally scrubbed all of the dirt and grime and blood from his skin. Between the three of them, they'd cleaned and wrapped up the scrape-like cut on his side, and Romeo even sacrificed one of his precious secondhand combs to tug every bit of dried blood from Race's hair.

Now, Specs helps him onto a bed that, compared to the provisions at the Refuge and the hard floor that was his bed for the last more-than-a-week, feels like heaven. Race hasn't managed to force any words past his lips since they touched down from the tree, but Specs tucks him in like his mother used to ( _before she died, before his father threw that last bottle too hard and finally broke everything down, everything broken down and left Race all alone_ ), and when Race reaches for him he sits on the side of the bed and doesn't leave until after Race has finally closed his eyes and slept.

 

* * *

 

Twelve hours after the Refuge, Race wakes up and _panics_ , because this isn't the Room and it isn't the end-of-the-line and there's no silence and there's no Red no Blink no Mush no stench of sickness and rot and dirt and sadness _and he doesn't know where he is—_  

And Crutchie is sitting on the side of his bed, and Race still can't speak but he doesn't have to. Either his face is very clear, or Crutchie is just literally able to read minds, because he offers Race a glass of water and a small plate of food ( _Race can only stomach half of it, but it's progress_ ), and then lets him lie back under the covers and rest. Blessedly cool fingers brush across his forehead before carefully, gently combing through his hair, and a light voice sings to him in a language that, for once, doesn't bring echoes of anger.

Race never realized Gaelic could sound so _beautiful_.

He sleeps.

 

* * *

 

Two days after the Refuge, he's well enough to move around the room and keep down a full meal ( _still only one a day, but that's better than nothing, that's progress, he's getting better—_ ), and he wonders how he's going to pay his rent for all the days he hasn't been working. It's not like he has any money left — all that he'd had, he'd been saving up to pay off that bad bet, and when he looks under his bed for his change-box it's empty. ( _He's not mad, they probably thought he wasn't coming back anyways, and they all need to eat and sleep too_ ).

When he tries to ask Crutchie ( _who's been sharing the room with him in place of Elmer— as far as Race can tell, the younger newsie has been nothing but ecstatic about his new set-up, bed placed between Henry and Finch in one of the larger rooms downstairs_ ), his voice once again fails to make an appearance, and he opens and closes his mouth a few times before retreating back to his bed, feeling lost. ( _So stupid, can't even fucking make himself talk now, how's he going to sell papes if he can't damn well talk_ ).

Maybe something about his expression, or perhaps the change-box left carelessly on the floor, keys the other boy in on what he was trying to say. That evening, Specs herds two guests into his room with a warning and a pointed look at Crutchie that seems to say 'make sure they don't do anything funny'. The first guest is Spot, arms crossed and perpetually determined expression firmly back in place, but Race doesn't recognize the second until he removes his hat and runs nervous fingers through a particularly distinctive shock of near-white hair. It's one of the fellas he lost that bet against, and he looks unusually _unhappy_ for a guy who won in the end.

"I, uh— heard what happened to you."

Race isn't sure what to say, so he just stares at the guy as blankly as he can manage. The blond seems unnerved ( _serves him right_ ), and clears his throat uncomfortably before continuing. "I felt real bad about it, so me and some of the other fellows at the races— we, um, put together a pool for you after Spot told us 'bout your situation. A money pool, I mean." His hands are wringing together so fretfully that his knuckles are going white, and Race almost feels bad for him ( _but then he remembers that he was in the Refuge for almost a month, and these guys couldn't even wait a few goddamn days for their money_ ). "So we, uh— basically, you don't have to worry about your rent while you're recovering, okay? We've got you covered. Just, uh—"

He swallows and finally raises his eyes to meet Race's, watery gray meeting off-blue, and he shrugs. "—get better soon, yeah? The races aren't really the same _without_ you, kid."

Spot escorts him out, with a glance over his shoulder at Race that seems to say the same. 

Race doesn't know what to think, so he sleeps.

 

* * *

 

Six days after the Refuge, Race can make it down the stairs to the entrance hall all on his own and hold a simple conversation in sign language. His voice hasn't decided to come back, but Mush and Blink have been visiting every evening ( _and staying the night once or twice_ ), and between the two of them he's learned the entire alphabet ( _including a few letters he didn't actually remember existed_ ) plus some actual sentences and questions. 

They tell him updates about the races ( _one of his favorite horses to bet on had been out of the races for a while, and it turns out she'd been pregnant and the foal had apparently been born around a week and a half ago — right around the time he was building a hammer out of a torn shirt, a stone, and a bone_ ), stories from the streets, and pass on news and good wishes from Brooklyn. Mush seems to have been adopted by the Brooklyn newsies — he has a vest and a hat now, to go over the same old shirt he'd had in the Refuge — and every time Race sees him, he looks impossibly happier than the day before.

Blink is just as acerbic and dry-humored as always, but something about Mush seems to be rubbing off on him, because his smile is growing ever so slightly more sincere with each visit. Race doesn't understand it, but he's happy. His friends are doing better, they're recovering and changing for the better every day, and he's really happy ( _he means it, it's not a lie, it's how he really feels_ ). 

They smile at him each time he manages to sign something new, and he can't find the energy to smile back.

Jack is still gone. Manhattan seems lost without him.

 

* * *

 

Eleven days after the Refuge, Crutchie seats himself on the side of Race's bed and places his hands over Race's own, still thin and twitching every so often. They're the same age ( _in fact, Race is pretty sure he's got a few months on Crutchie, but they're street rats so it doesn't really matter all that much as long as they can give a number when it's needed_ ), but there's something about the way Crutchie holds himself and speaks that puts Race in mind of a boy far closer to adulthood than just thirteen. ( _Something that reminds him all-too-suddenly of another boy with a bum leg, a boy with a round face and a soft voice and long dark hair hanging in his coal-bright eyes, and Race finds himself unable to quite look his current roommate in the eye_ ).

"Race, I'se worried about you." He knows, but he can't make himself say a thing. "I'se not saying you needs to recover immediately— we's here for you, no matter how long it takes—" Race _isn't_ going to cry, he's not going to cry ( _there are tears welling up in his eyes, and he refuses to acknowledge them_ ), "—but I sure hate seeing you sad. I know you'se worried about Jack— I am too. I ain't asking you to start talking or working now, but if you needs someone to talk to— just, don't be afraid to talk to me, yeah?"

Race sniffles, the tears he's definitely _not_ shedding dripping from his cheeks onto the blanket. Strong arms ( _Crutchie might actually have Spot beat in the arm department, but it's doubtful that either of them will ever acknowledge it_ ) wrap around him as gently as the heat from a bonfire in the winter, and a voice ( _a little stronger, a little sharper, more like flowing water than Red's whispering wind, and Race is grateful because it's a voice that doesn't hold any echoes but that of itself_ ) sings to him softly in a language he's slowly learning is as beautiful as it is cruel.

He's not sure how long he stays there, pressing his face into Crutchie's shoulder and gripping his friend's shirt like a lifeline, but eventually the pressure building up in his throat becomes something new. Something both old and new.

His voice is little more than a rough, scratchy whisper, but he's not worried about being heard. "I want to see him. I— I want to visit Jack."

"Race, is you _sure_? The Refuge is—"

"I gotta know he's _okay_."

"... I know."

 

* * *

 

Two weeks after the Refuge, Race finds himself climbing an uncomfortably familiar wall. Perhaps it's something about moments of fear, but his feet seem to remember every step and foothold on the wall perfectly, reaching from one to the next before he even thinks about moving. Specs visited last week, so it's he who guides Race along the entry route and up to the window that's been re-fitted with a pane of actual glass to replace the missing bars.

They knock in a pattern Race thinks he should recognize but can't place, and it's not even a minute before an achingly familiar face appears and tinkers with the window's lock for a few seconds until it clicks open and swings up and out. There's an almost-healed scab marking where a lip had been split, and a fresh bruise across half of his eyebrow and forehead, but Jack's face— _whole_ and _alive_ and looking back at him— is as welcome as rain in the heat of summer. 

Race reaches for him without thinking ( _he's alive he's alive he's not another dead kid in that room he's alive_ ) and then hesitates, hand barely crossing the threshold of the window frame. His throat constricts, he doesn't know what to say but if he speaks he _knows_ he'll just start crying again ( _and he's been doing too damn much of that recently_ ), and he looks away.

Fingers lace with his, and when he looks back up Jack is trying— not quite succeeding, but _trying_ , and that's what means the most— to smile at him. " _Hey_ , Race. How's you doing?"

His voice is failing him, but he manages to brace his elbows on the frame and sign awkwardly with one hand that he's okay. ( _He's not okay, but Jack wouldn't want to know that_ ). Jack blinks and laughs weakly, pulling his hand away from Race's in order to muss with his slightly shaggy hair, the motion reminding Race of the way Crutchie had run fingers through his hair and sung him to sleep, the first day back. "Bud, I don't know no sign language, but I know you'se better'n to think you just told me the truth."

Race doesn't have anything to say to that, and settles for shrugging in resignation ( _Jack's right, as always_ ) and peering into the room in search of the other familiar face ( _friend, brother_ ) he left behind. None of the other boys are awake, and he can't make out who's who in the dark— he thinks Antsy might be gone, and the boy who sometimes screamed in his sleep and tried to run from demons no-one but him could see, and the little girl with cloudy eyes who chattered brightly to no-one and once tried to stab a guard at breakfast.

His unasked query seems to be noted, because Jack's smile grows sad and he glances back over his shoulder at a still bundle on one of the beds. "He... he ain't doing so well. Didn't wake up yesterday, and he's still _breathin'_ , but— but it's mostly blood now, I thinks, instead of air." Race feels a small part of him, somewhere deep inside, crack and fall to pieces. Jack looks almost lost. "Ain't got long left. I'll... I'll tell him you visited, yeah? He'd be real happy to know you'se alright."

Like that small part of him, Race's voice cracks and breaks when he manages to force words past his lips. "There— there ain't _nothing_ we can do?"

"Nothing left _to_ do, except make sure he don't go alone." It's said with a heavy sigh, and Jack seems to almost melt into himself, shoulders sagging and eyes falling to the frame between them. "And— and tell his sisters, he's got two of 'em— he wanted to tell 'em _goodbye_. We can do that much."

Race knows what he has to do.

 

* * *

 

Fifteen days after the Refuge, Race leaves the Lodging House while it's still light out for the first time since his return, and makes his way through Manhattan— not to _sell_ , he doesn't have the energy or the voice to sell papes again yet— in search of Doyers Street. Around him, the chatter of what Red had told him was called Cantonese fills the streets, and he's distracted once and twice and thrice again by the astounding concentration of culture that the area holds.

It takes him a few hours of asking ( _especially since many of the inhabitants don't speak much English, which he can hardly fault them for anyways_ ) to find the right place, but luck manages to stay by his side for once. An older man, setting up a stall of freshly cooked food that almost makes Race's mouth water in envy, bursts into a veritable avalanche of words when Race shakily signs along with his voice, using the sign Mush and Blink had told him was Red's 'name-sign'. Within minutes, he finds himself dragged down the street and onto a smaller path that leads to a small, cozy-looking house with patched-together curtains and a creaky door.

The old man disappears inside, leaving Race to stand nervously at the doorstep. After a brief, uncomfortable wait, a girl perhaps Finch's age appears at the door with wide eyes the same coal-dark color as Red's. Her English is heavily accented, but she speaks it fearlessly. "Father says you have news from Mei? Is s— is he well? Where is he?"

" _I—_ " He realizes, with a start, that Red's family never knew where he'd gone. He realizes he has to tell them their child is dying ( _might already be dead_ ). "He's— he's somewhere where he ain't coming back from." Her expression falls, and he hurries to kneel down next to her with placating hands ( _how does one deal with sad children, this isn't what Race is good at, he can't do this he can't do it but he has to, he gave his word and if he can't keep that then what good is he_ ). "Red— I mean, Mei—"

"Red sounds nice, call him that. He'd like that."

He swallows nervously and nods. "—Red's been in the Refuge. It's, um, a jail? For kids on the streets. He— he didn't tell me, really, but I think he went in there because he thought it was better than his other options." Red's sister stares at him, eyes wide and dark and serious, silently demanding that he continue. "He, um— he got real sick, there. The sorta sick you don't _get_ better from. Ain't gone yet, I think, but— he, um, wanted to tell you goodbye. And— and since he ain't able to say it _himself_ , I'se here to— _to—_ "

The girl in front of him nods, eyes tearing up and bottom lip trembling, and runs back into the house. Race can't make himself move, there has to be something more he can do, something more he can _say—_  

Small hands pat his shoulder, and he realizes he's been staring at the ground when he looks up to see Red's sister is back, along with an even smaller girl— younger than Elmer, he bets— who must be the youngest of the three. She's still crying— they both are, though the younger probably more from an empathic response than any knowledge of the news she has yet to receive— but she smiles gently and presses a small package into Race's surprised hands.

"Mother and Father were so scared when he never came home, and they want to say they're sorry for making him feel he couldn't be family. A son is as precious as a daughter, they wanted to tell him, and we all made him this as a gift for when he came back, so—" Her voice breaks, and he wishes he could say something, anything, that would make this hurt less. "—so please give it to him, so my brother will know he is still loved, now and always. _Please_."

There is a familiar tightness in Race's throat, so he nods silently and cradles the package in his hands like the baby birds Finch likes to rescue and raise in a box by the window. He turns to leave, and only pauses when Red's sister speaks again.

"And— I do not know your name, but—"

He knows what she says, even as the muzziness in his ears refuses to let him hear it, and manages to give her a smile before he turns and runs back down the streets to the Lodging House, already nearly overwhelmed by the outside world.

_But thank you._

 

* * *

 

Eighteen days after the Refuge, Jack returns to the Lodging House with hollow eyes and dirt on his hands. Red isn't with him. Nobody needs to ask why— they all know.

He presses the small package back into Race's hands, just as gently as the little girl off Doyers Street did after hearing her brother was dying, and doesn't look him in the eyes. "It made him real happy, what you'se said. So I think he woulda wanted you'se to have it, not some bull or hole in the ground." Race can't speak, voice caught in his throat and frozen even as his fingers automatically curl around the package, tender as a though it were a baby bird. "He— he's somewhere _better_ , now. Probably laughin' it up at us down here." 

Race dares to look up at Jack's face, to meet his eyes, and feels like he's been skewered to the wall behind him by the brokenness he sees there. Crutchie takes Jack's hand, pulls him upstairs quietly away from all the wide eyes and worried glances and young newsies not knowing just how bad things are but knowing they sure aren't _good_. 

He thinks he can hear singing.

 

* * *

 

Nineteen days after the Refuge, Race tugs on his vest and laces up his shoes, sticks a cigar he nicked from one of the other boys in his mouth ( _gives him something to chew on that isn't his own lip, something for his mouth to do instead of talking_ ), and tugs his cap firmly into place. Jack is still in his room ( _well, his and Race's and Crutchie's room, apparently, and maybe that's just how it'll end up being now — Race doesn't mind_ ), recovering from eighteen days in the Refuge with a dying boy and ghosts, and Crutchie isn't with him but Specs is, the big brother to basically every Manhattan newsie at this point.

The younger boys look a little lost, the older ones a little hesitant, because their leader is out of commission and they're used to having someone to follow. Someone to guide them, make sure they hit the streets at the right time and don't get cheated out of a single cent.

Race squares his shoulders, pushes open the front door, and yells at the top of his lungs for his friends ( _his family_ ) to hit the streets. The sun is creeping over the horizon, the city is waking up, and if Jack could take eighteen days in the Refuge for him, Race can damn well pay it back with interest. After all, it's in bad form to shirk a debt, even if it takes one helluva time to work it off. And he's determined to work it off as long as he needs to, to make sure this never, ever happens again ( _to make sure none of them ever have to see the faces of dead kids in those rooms ever again_ ).

Limping alongside him as they move towards the circulation gate, Crutchie seems to smile at him, and punches Race gently in the arm when he glances over. He's worried about Jack — they _both_ are, and know it — but for now, this is the best they can do, and they're going to do it well. 

A little paper star with a red tassel hangs from Race's belt loop, a gold bead holding it in place. A small knife hides in his boot. His hands, which would have once rested in his pockets, are ready at his sides to speak for him if his voice cannot. He's not _okay_ , not yet— okay takes time that none of them have, after all— but he's better. 

He's better, and he's home, _and that's enough._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's done! Thanks everyone who's been following this story for the last month or so! I hope you all enjoyed it, and find the ending to be adequate! :)

**Author's Note:**

> So, in case anyone wasn't aware, this is directly linked to my newsies series 'tomorrow they'll see what we are', which includes the headcanon from this lovely post (http://bentylershook.tumblr.com/post/164011558583/tired-alexander-tiredjay) that Race was in the Refuge at some point. I'm kinda doing my own interpretation of what happens, but I hope y'all enjoy it! (The ages are also headcanoned a little bit, going off of knowing that Jack's seventeen in canon).
> 
> This will be multi-chap, though not too many. As usual, I don't have any sort of update schedule planned, but I hope to finish this before I go back to school!
> 
> Like always, comments are lovely and much appreciated! <3


End file.
